


growing pains

by Rosyredlipstick



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 13 Going on 30 AU, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Sort Of, a truly absurd amount of 90s references, timetravel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-02-24 15:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 40,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13216767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosyredlipstick/pseuds/Rosyredlipstick
Summary: “Thirty and flirty and thriving.” Victor read off the cover, sighing happily at the bound paper in his hands. The glossyH.M. Magazinecover shined back at him. “I wishIwas thirty.”-Be careful what you wish for, they say.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much to tumblr users cunning-and-cool & ginriku for looking this through at its first draft, as well as rinarraven for being the best beta ever and watching 13 going on 30 with me at 5 am because i was burning out on inspiration. thanks y'all!

_December, 2000_

* * *

 This month's issue, almost as if by magic, came in the mail the day before Victor Nikiforov's thirteenth birthday.

It was actually due to a minor postal mishap that several people were in quite big trouble for, but Victor would still not hesitate to label it magic. Because this - the shiny, perfect, spotless December issue of his most beloved magazine was here.

“Thirty and flirty and thriving.” Victor read off the cover, sighing happily at the bound paper in his hands. The glossy _H.M. Magazine_ cover shined back at him.  _“I_ want to be older.”

From the couch, Yakov frowned at him laid across the carpet. “Do not hurry to get older, Vitya. It will come. Enjoy being young.”

“Being young sucks,” he whined, hugging the thick paper to his chest. On the cover, Mariah Carey beamed back at him, looking impossibly joyful about her age.  _Thirty and flirty and thriving, Mariah has it all!_

Victor had no idea what ‘all’ Mariah had, but  _dear Britney Spears_ did he want it.

Victor huffed, “I wish  _I_ was thirty.”

Yakov gave him a rare soft look, ruffling his hair to Victor’s visible dismay. “You’re a teenager now, yes? Teenagers complain all the time. Seems like you are already growing up.”

Victor wrinkled his nose, tossing his hair over his shoulder.  _“Yakov,”_ he complained loudly, grabbing up all his magazines, ignoring the amused look the older man was throwing him as he stomped away. Yakov, the traitor, could be heard laughing.

Ugh, he was the  _worst._

Victor sighed, dropping the magazines across his bed, and turned to his overflowing closet. Checking the clock on his bedside, he flipped his hair - it was almost time.

He surveyed his outfit options, laying them side by side before pulling on a few to examine in the mirror, and didn’t have to wait long before Yakov was yelling up the stairs.

“Katsuki is here,” Yakov was announcing from the kitchen, as if that was any surprise. Yuuri came over everyday after his dance rehearsal, four fifteen on the dot.

“Tell him I’m in my room!” Victor shoved another article of clothing on, frowning at the mirror. A distressed denim vest over his rainbow turtleneck, a favorite combination of his.

“Victor?” Yuuri was already calling out, his tell-tale numerous keychains clashing together as he bounced up the stairs.

Victor wasted no moment, pulling the other boy into his room. “Yuuri!” He gestured to himself only slightly frantic, “How do I look? Is this the one?”

Yuuri paused in the doorway, still in his clothes from practice, and gave Victor a fond look. “Victor,” he told him, a smile in his voice. “You look  _fine.”_

“Yuuri,” he whined, flipping his hair back. “ I can't just look  _fine_ today. I have to look  _perfect._ ”

“Well, you look perfect.”  There was a small, nearly unnoticeable blush on the apples of his cheeks. But under the low lighting of Victor's bedroom, neither boy paid it much attention.

Victor only sighed, snatching up the glossy magazine that had fallen to the floor. “Don't lie to me.” He gestured to one of the models posing somewhat uncomfortably next to an article  column. “I'll never look perfect like  _them_.”

Yuuri frowned down at the blank faced model, his cheeks fading some. “They don't look like they're having much fun. Maybe that’s good.”  He scrambled to his feet like a thought was just occurring to him. “I’m going to grab my book bag from the living room. I’ll be right back!”

And he returned after only a few moments, a minute at most. But that didn’t stop Victor from doing a complete 180 on his emotions. Victor, having heard Yuuri coming back onto the room, cried out dramatically.

Yuuri stepped over Victor’s body thrown across the carpet, paying him no real attention as he shuffled through his bag.

Victor squinted his eyes at the other boy as Yuuri took a comfortable place leaning against his bed frame, fully unzipping his backpack at last. Victor let out another dramatic wail, cracking open an eyelid to look at the other boy. No response.

Finally, he just threw himself over Yuuri’s lap, his hand over his forehead, his hair falling with expert ease to waterfall across Yuuri’s knees.

Yuuri sighed, a slight, hidden smile in place, and tipped his head to the side. He looked down to the other boy. “Yes, Victor?”

“Yuuri,” There were real, glistening tears in Victor’s eyes. It was a talent, honest. “Yuuri, my life is _horrible.”_

“What’s wrong now?” Yuuri, the traitor, held a trace of amusement in his voice as he surveyed Victor’s forlorn figure still half-draped across the floor. “Do I need to make the fish face?”

Victor sobbed, throwing his hands in the air. Before him,  _H.M. Magazine's_ newest edition laid out across the carpet. “Not even the fish face will fix this!”

“Must be serious,” Yuuri tucked his feet under him, jostling Victor slightly. “Want to tell me what’s so horribly wrong?”

At that, Victor’s eyes filled again with unshed tears. Yuuri vaguely wondered if he should be filming this - Victor could use this as an audition tape one day.

Victor only gestured with sorrow towards the shiny pages, more emotion building up in his chest. He sat up, mostly just to prove a point. “I’m never going to be as beautiful as Leonardo diCaprio. I’m never going to be as big and famous.” He sobbed into his hands. “I bet Leo never had _braces.”_

Yuuri’s cracking grin was soft, light, and just the tiniest bit amused as he rubbed circles into Victor’s back. “You’re gonna have the best teeth in the world,” Yuuri reassured him. He paused in his movement, his cheeks filling with color. “And...you know, if it came to it...I’d pick you over Leo any day.”

Victor looked up from where he had shoved his face into his knees, turning a bit to the other boy in amazement. “Wait, honest?”

The color went darker, “Of course, Victor.”

Victor seemed to be processing the compliment. “You saw  _Titanic_ , right?”

“My mom fast forwarded some parts, but yeah.” His smile turned a shade of coy. “I like you better.”

Victor blinked a few times. “Wow,” he breathed out before beaming. “I like you more than Leo diCaprio too!”

He and Yuuri shared matching, slightly shy smiles. They seemed to be sharing more and more of those these days. Yuuri, after a moment, broke the moment with a giggle, his hand coming up to his mouth. He was always calmer around Victor, especially when the other boy was in one of his dramatic moods. Yuuri, the worst best friend in the entire world, seemed to find them  _funny._  

Something seemed to occur to Yuuri then as he leaned back from the moment, blinking a few times. He turned to the book bag at his side, “Oh! What I went for my bag for -” he dug around for a second, pulling out a few books before making a noise of triumph as he revealed a small tissue paper wrapped bundle.

“Happy birthday, Vitya.” Yuuri’s smile was small and coy, a flickering thing. He pushed the small, tightly wrapped package into Victor’s hands, his cheeks coloring.

Victor perked up, the last of all his previous dramatic emotion fading nearly instantly. “You got me something for my birthday!”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, fond and soft. “Of course I did. Now open it!”

Victor, nearly bouncing in place, tore open the light blue paper with reckless abandon. After a moment, he gasped.

His hands fluttered around the tissue paper in excitement, “Yuuri!” He beamed, “It’s a glitter choker! I’ve been wanting one of these!”

“I couldn’t get the one from dELiA’s you wanted,” Yuuri’s voice was apologetic, “but I found this one from the flea market!” He smiled sweetly, “The lady said it was  _magic.”_

Victor’s light laugh was like a ringing bell, “It  _looks_ magical. I love it.” He beamed, “Can you help me put it on?”

The same slight color from earlier was back, “Right now?”

Victor shoved the necklace at him, turning and picking up his hair so Yuuri would link it. “Of  _course,_ if there’s any occasion to wear my new magic choker, it’s on my thirteenth birthday, Yuuri!”

“It is,” Yuuri gave him a small, shy smile. “So what do you want to do?” Yuuri leaned into his side, enjoying the warmth coming off the other other boy. “Mom said I could stay out till  _eight_ tonight to celebrate.”

Victor gasped, “That’s almost two hours later than usual!”

Yuuri shared in his excitement, “I know! We can do almost anything!”

“Oh!” A thought occurred to him then, and he grabbed onto the other boy’s hand, grinning brightly. “Let’s get to the rink before it gets too crowded! We can take turns practicing our jumps!”

“I want to come!”

Victor groaned nearly instantly at the high voice interrupting their conversation.  _Of course._

“Get out of my room, Yura.” Victor complained, returning to sprawling out, now across his bed. Yura had taken to sitting outside Victor’s bedroom while Yuuri visited and listening in on their conversations for opportunities to blackmail Victor for candy. More often than not, it worked out in Yura’s favor. “It’s  _my_ birthday and Yakov said I didn’t have to babysit.”

Yuuri  _tsked_ , “Be nice, Vitya.” He gave Yura a soft, welcoming smile. “You can come if you want, Yura, we’re leaving soon.”

The smaller boy beamed in all his four year old glory, “I’ll get my skates!” He smiled, his smile all window gaps from lost teeth. “I put _tiger_ stickers on them!”

Yura ran and fetched them obediently, and puffed out his chest in pride as Yuuri cooed and admonished the tiger stickers in all the right spots. Victor dropped his crossed arms and sighed, smiling slightly. He didn’t really mind taking him along - he probably would have brought him anyways. Yura was cute when he was trying to impress Yuuri’s easily provoked amazement.

“If you’re going to come -” Yura beamed at him, “- you might as well be able to see.” Victor  gestured to the space in front of his knees, “If you hurry up, I’ll braid it out of your face.”

He was nearly vibrating in excitement, tripping over his feet in his haste to grab his skate bag. He plopped the bag in front of Yuuri, giving him a shy smile, and pulled his knees to his chest. He tipped his head back onto Victor’s knees, chubby cheeks spread out into a wide smile. “The pretty braid?”

Victor was already separating his fine silk hair. “I  _suppose.”_

Yuuri gave them both a fond look, moving to collect the ripped wrapping paper from the carpet.

Victor continued the simple braid, much less complicated than Yura thought, and tied it off with the band on his wrist. Smoothing the stubborn fly-aways back from Yura’s face, he stood.

“Go make sure Yakov’s ready,” Victor told Yura, patting his head as the younger boy scrambled to his feet and raced out the door. He’d probably want to examine the braid to make sure it was perfect.

“Look who I found!” Yuuri heaved himself through the doorway, a dog much too big to be cradled in Yuuri’s arms doing exactly that. Victor brightened.

Yuuri let the dog to the ground, “Say bye to Makkachin!” Yuuri smiled sweetly, leaning forward to press his face into the dog’s fur.

Victor nearly melted, bending over to better see her.  _“Makkachin,_ ” he sang out, grinning widely. She jumped up, leaning her front paws on his hip, and panted happily up at him. “Makka, Makka,  _Makka_ ~” Victor lifted her up, hugging her to his chest despite her large size, and pushed his face into her fur.

She was the best dog.

“She’s the best dog,” Yuuri sighed, scratching her behind her ears in the way she loved. He was still trying to convince his parents to get one and must have been somewhat successful - he heard Mr. Katsuki asking after where Yakov had gotten Makkachin.

God.  _Two_ poodles. What a future.

Yura was already goraning out in frustration at the foot of the stairs, stomping his foot. “Vitya! Hurry up, Yakov is almost ready!”

Victor sighed, pushing one more kiss onto Makkachin’s nose, before grabbing Yuuri’s hand and pulling him down the stairs.

Yakov, only groaning a bit about his old bones, drove them to the rink, and left them with admission money and a promise to be back in a few hours.

He and Yuuri rushed to the rink, barely any people there but a few teens louding in the corner of the rink, and moved to shove their shaktes on, excitement clear in both of their grins. They dropped Yura, pouting, off at the smaller rink, a few younger kids lingering on the ice, and took off towards the ice.

Being on the ice with Yuuri was the best. Showing off fake routines, talking about their practices, ignoring Yakov’s advice - it was some of Victor’s favorite things to do.

“Minako wants me to double up on my dance practice but that would mean less skating,” Yuuri shrugged, smiling softly. He was skating backwards to face Victor, ease in every motion of his body. “And I like skating.”

“It’s like, our only hang out time for just the two of us,” Victor pointed out, playing with his footwork a bit.

“And Yura,” There was laughter in his voice, “don’t forget Yura.”

Victor puffed out a sigh, not actually annoyed but never willing to admit it. Little brothers were  _supposed_ to be annoying.

Yuuri smiled, grabbing onto his hand, and pulled him along the ice. They were good like that - hand in hand, gliding across like they were meant to. Victor peeked a look over at the other boy, suddenly shy with what he had to say.

“Yakov is talking about having me try out for a local competition,” There was a slight rare blush filling Victor’s cheeks, “I’m gonna have to make a routine and everything.”

“Victor!” Yuuri grabbed onto his arm in excitement, “Victor, that would be  _so cool._ ”

Victor beamed, “I thought so! He wants me to start practicing next week.” He lit up after a moment, “Yuuri! Yuuri, you should try out too!” He gestured towards Yuuri’s smooth skating, “You’re as good as me, we could totally do it together! We’re already here all the time, we can practice together!”

A nervous expression passed over Yuuri’s face, “I don’t know…”

Victor grabbed onto the other boy’s hand, a serious look coming over his face. Rare, on his usually grinning face. “Yuuri,” he said, “you’re like, my favorite skater ever. I’ll be there with you. You already like making routines out of your dance programs, we can totally do this!”

Yuuri’s cheeks were flushed - from the cold air of the rink, probably. Slowly, he dipped his chin, and gave Victor a hesitant nod. “I’ll talk to Minako about it.”

Victor’s rare expression broke with a grin, beaming, and pulling the other boy into a quick hug. “This is the best birthday ever!”

“Oh!” At that, Yuuri pulled away, his head turning back towards the edge of the rink. “We should get some pictures, let me go get my camera!” Yuuri grinned, excited. After slipping on his skate guards, he hobbled off to the lockers. Victor watched him go with a smile, warming up on his own to go around once more.

But before he could, one of the teens lingering in the corner of the rink slid up, her hands on her hips.

“Hey, kid.” The teen jammed her thumb over her shoulder, frowning down at him. “Get off the ice, your time is up.”

Victor frowned, glancing over to the sign handing on the wall. He cocked his head to the side, unsure. “It’s….still open for another hour.”

The older teen gave him a dull look, “Only teens get to stay in the big rink after regular hours.” She gestured towards the smaller practice one in the distance. Victor could just barely see Yura racing across the surface. “Shouldn’t you be in the kid section?”

“It’s my  _birthday._ I’m thirteen.” Victor angled up his chin like he’d seen Lillia do. “And you should be nice to me, I’m going to be  _famous_ one day.”

“Really?” There was laughter in her voice. “Sweetheart, you’ve got braces, baby fat, and just enough acne to be in a Proactiv commercial. You might wanna stick to something else, hun.”

Victor blinked at her. There was no cruelty in her tone, just bumping laughter, This - he - was just a joke to her. She was being starkly honest.

That...made it worst. A lot worse.

He was skating off the rink before he had another thought about it, swallowing against the tightening in his throat. The girl’s laughter trailed after him, a horrible soundtrack to his retreat.

“I got the camera -” Yuuri cut himself off, his smile dropping at Victor’s red, watery eyes. “I - Victor - what -”

Victor rushed straight past him, sliding on his skate guards, and rushing off the rink. In one hand, his bag swung widely as he wobbled away.

He threw himself into the nearest doorway - a closet, one he and Yuuri once hid out in when Yakov came looking for them - and locked the door behind himself, already sobbing.

She was right. This nameless teen, so cool and suave at only a few years older than he was - she was right. She had taken a single look at him and known everything Victor had sealed away under layers of dramatics and silly faces.

He slid down the door, shaking, tears soaking themselves into his shirt collar. She was so right. He was just a stupid thirteen year old, with a generic daydream of being famous, just like every other thirteen year old out there.

Where his bag had fallen, the contents spilled out open onto the concrete. Mariah Carey grinned at him like a secret, confident and cool and poised. The magazine cover almost shined under the dim light of the closet, just enough for Victor to read clearly the words splashed across.

_Thirty and flirty, and thriving._

“I hate being thirteen. I just want to be be thirty,” he sobbed, burying his head into his knees. “ _I just want to be be thirty._ Thirty, flirty, and thriving. ”

He continued to hit his head against the back of the supplies closet door, sobbing, and his mantra only grew more desperate. Outside the door, Yuuri was banging on the door in panic and worry, his voice calling out pleas to open the door and Victor’s name in equal.

And the glitter choker, tight around the pale column of his throat, sparkled even under the dim, dim lighting of the room.

* * *

He must have pinned his hair back last night.

It was a rare morning in which he didn’t wake up with his silver locks tangled around his neck, frizzy around his cheeks. He was honestly a bit proud of himself to remember to tie it back - it was a habit he was trying to train himself into.

He squinted around the dark room in confusion. His room usually never got this dark in the mornings due to his window facing the sun. Must be bad weather today.

Sharp ringing - what must have woken him up, he barely registered it until now - started up again. It was off in the distance, in another room, but loud enough to clearly hear from his own room. One of Yakov’s alarms, probably.

He stretched out in his bed, his bones popping. Makkachin wasn’t in bed with him - she had probably curled up in Yura’s bed for the night. Traitor.

Well, he might as well start the day. Start breakfast, at the very least.

He stumbled out of bed, his mind still in the process of booting up, and nearly tripped over his dark sheets. Had he been fully awake, maybe he would have noticed the out of place furniture, or how silky his usually scratchy sheets were, or - at the very least - the silken pajamas that hung from his frame, as he usually slept in Yakov’s old shirts. But, as he blinked against a wave of fatigue, he didn’t notice any of this at first.  

He almost called out to Yakov, instead mumbling around a yawn. He pushed open the bedroom door, squinting against the hallway light, and froze.

He...he wasn’t at home.

He jumped back into the dark room, suddenly wide awake. He wasn’t  _anywhere_ he knew, not the Katsuki inn, or Lilia’s apartment, or any of his uncle’s houses. Nowhere he remembered.

The last thing he remembered was at the rink. Running into the closet, crying, Yuuri banging at the door. He must have fallen asleep there, and maybe Yuuri called someone. That would...make sense. Maybe.

He patted around the wall, sighing in relief when he managed to flip up the light switch. Okay. Okay, progress.

He was alone, it seemed, in a wide expansive room, all gray steel and white sheets. A bed, a small couch, and an empty bookshelf. Nearly bare. From here, he could see a the darkened tile of a bathroom and light carpet of a closet. More to investigate later, after he found Yakov.

He sighed, turning back to the doorway, and came face-to-face with the mirror hanging on the fall.

He stared into the mirror. A older man - with _his_ features, with  _his_ wide blue eyes, with  _his_ mouth parted open - stared back at him.

Victor screamed.

The man screamed back.

Was that…? It had to be, that was him but, how? How was this even possible?

Oh god. Victor’s face in the mirror gasped. His  _hair._

He ran a shaking hand through the short - oh god, it was _so short_ \- cropped hair. It barely reached his ears.

His hand smacked over his mouth - his  _braces_ were gone. He peered at his reflection a bit closer - no braces, just perfect straight teeth that were  _definitely_ not his own.

“Oh my god,” he gasped out, right before choking. His voice - god, it was so _deep._ His eyes were crazed as he met them through his own reflection, “Oh my  _god.”_

He had to find Yakov. He would - he would know what to do, the older man always did and this was surely something better handled by an adult.

A real adult, that is.

He wrenched the door open, calling out for Yakov and Yuri to no response, half expecting Makkachin to come bursting through the door as he cracked it open. There was no one else there but Victor.

And that annoying constant ringing.

He followed the sound, frowning and looking more than a little crazed and desperate, before stumbling into the living room. More unfamiliar surroundings - this time a coffee table paired with a pale couch, a dark coat thrown over the arm. He beelined for that first.

The ringing was coming from a sleek black block in the coat pocket.  _Christophe,_ it read. He inspected the loud device, the ring continuing. Maybe it was a music player, of some sort?

After a few moments, the ringing stopped. Victor let out a small sigh of relief, putting the block to the side. Along with the block in his pocket, a dark leather wallet. Something familiar, at least.

Victor flipped it open, his own tiny image staring back at him. He had a license, apparently. A few sleek cards - with his  _name_ on them, unbelievable considering that Yakov didn’t even let him run into the store with the older man’s card. His gaze flickered to the coffee table in front of the couch, stark white envelopes thrown about. He examined them, breathing low. Bills - bills with his full name and impossible dates on them, both such unlikely occurrences he stumbled back. He fell onto the couch, a breath rushing out of him.

Okay. He needed to think.

He picked up another one of the envelopes only to drop it back immediately. His eyes went wide.

That was...him.

Under the small pile of bills and papers, was his face. On...a magazine. Oh god. And not just  _any_ magazine. He picked it up slowly, his hands gentle and careful as if holding holy text, and stared at the bound paper.

His face was on the cover of  _H.M. Magazine_. His face - unblemished with smooth, perfect skin - was on the cover, with text on either side bracketing his face in. No braces, no acne, no baby fat.

That was...good.

“Okay,” he said out loud, staring at the cover. The picture stared him down, looking impassive and bored. Victor didn’t even know he could  _look_ like that. “This is good.” He set down the magazine, falling back on the couch. “This could never happen in real life. So that means I’m dreaming. I can...I can deal with that.” He took a breath, “I’m dreaming.”

The ringing started back up. Apparently, even in dreams everyday annoyances were still commonplace.

He ignored it, instead looking around the apartment his dream had come up with. A bit plain, if anything, with too much gray and white. Where was all the color? His bedroom back home was a mess of neon color and peeling teen celebrity posters. Where was his _Romeo + Juliet_ poster? It was limited edition and cost all of his allowance for two months. The least his unconscious could do was treasure it in his weird hallucination.

Rough pounding on the door pulled him out of his desperate, frantic thoughts, and Victor jumped up and looked to the door in only slight fear. Someone...was here.

Maybe if he ignored it…

Victor waited a few more moment but the knocking only persisted. The loud ringing started up again. Hesitantly, he took a step forward. Still no stopping.

“Victor,” a voice, slightly annoyed, was calling through the door. “Victor, we’re behind schedule.”

Victor leaned forward, narrowing his eye towards the small glass circle in the wood. Behind the door, someone huffed in annoyance.

“Um,” Victor attempted to place any familiarity to the person he stared through at the peephole. “Who is it?”

Victor watched the man roll his eyes before calling out, “Christophe.” The man, even through the peephole, was obviously in a hurry, “Open the door, Victor. We need to go.”

Victor took a breath. Okay. Yakov had drilled into he and Yura at very young ages the dangers of strangers. You don’t let strangers in, and you certainly don’t go with them.

But he knew Victor’s name, and Christophe - was that the name from the ringing block?

This was all a dream anyways. Everything would be fine.

Victor opened the door, his eyes crazed, his hair still sticking up in all directions.

Christophe barely spared him a glance past the initial. “Silk pajama pants?” Christophe’s voice was carefully neutral. “Attempting to start a new fashion trend, Mr. Nikiforov?”

“Uh,” Victor blinked, tightening his arms around himself. “Yeah. Um. That’s what I do.”

Christophe didn’t offer any other words, only holding out a cardboard cup. Victor took it numbly, without much thought.

“I’ve been calling you for an hour and a half.” Christophe’s voice held no emotion as he whipped out his own sleek black block - nearly identical to Victor’s own - and began tapping on it. Curiously, he peeked at the other man’s screen, a bit mystified.

Christophe didn’t seem to find anything out of the usual with this, “I’ve pushed back the meeting with JJ’s people - he’s still very insistent on being the first cover model to show off his tattoo - and the committee meeting is still set for this afternoon.” Christophe, without paying him much attention, began passing over Victor the heavy coat and scarf, gesturing towards the shoes haphazard in the doorway. Victor fumbled to lace them up, tying them up neatly, before Christophe disappeared around a corner.

If it was a dream then Victor should...go along with it?

He grabbed his few things, slammed the door behind him, and rushed after Christophe, impatiently holding the elevator.

In the elevator, Christophe had already turned his attention back to his hands, cradling his own black block. Victor bit his lip and began to put on his - he supposed it was his, after Christophe had shoved it towards him - coat. It was heavy and dark, nothing like the fluorescent puffer jacket at home. Victor took a deep breath.

“What’s…” Christophe glanced up at his voice, “What’s the date today?”

The other man gave him an unimpressed look, “March 14th.”

“And, uh.” Victor tried to keep his voice was wobbling. “What year?”

Christophe gave him a severe side-eye. “2017. Do I need to call someone? Your doctor?”

“No, no,” Victor shook his head furiously, “Just checking.”

Okay. Weird dream, where it wasn’t his birthday but three months, seventeen years later. That was...fine.

Christophe lead him to a parked limo at the curb, nearly dragging his elbow the entire way. Victor only clenched at his coffeecup, only hesitating briefly before following the other man into the car.

“Um,” Victor very gently the door behind him. There was a driver in the front, who peeled away the curb almost immediately. “Where are we going?”

Christophe’s voice was a sigh even if he didn’t do so. “How late were you out last night?”

“I -” Victor thought. The last memory he had was in the closet of the skating rink. It would have been well past his usual eight o’clock curfew at that point. “Late.”  

Christophe sighed, “I can tell. I’ll try and see what appointments I can move around.”

Victor didn’t respond despite Christophe clearly waiting for him to. He shot a look at the other man, swallowing. Everything suddenly felt very real.

“Am I…” He was almost scared to ask, “Am I not dreaming?”

Christophe gave him a slightly dull look, going back to tapping away at his phone. “If you’re dreaming, then we’re  _both_ living out this nightmare.”

There was a beat of silence. Victor bit his lip to shreds, “So, no?”

“No, Victor. You’re not dreaming. I don’t know what you did last night -” he gestured to the entirety of Victor, “But we have a lot on the agenda for today. Try your drink.”

Slowly, he sipped at the steaming drink and almost immediately had to resist the urge to spit it across the leather cushions.

Christophe gave him a weary look, “Something wrong, Mr. Nikiforov?”

Somehow, Victor forced down the sip. He winced, pulling the cup in cup holder, and made no plans to ever touch it again. “Is that coffee?”

“Yes, sir.” Christophe answered promptly. “The same order you drink every morning. Would you like me to get something else more to your liking?”

“No, no I just -” What was Victor suppose to say,  _I’m not allowed to drink coffee and that might be good because that’s disgusting?_ “Not thirsty.”

Christophe didn’t comment any further, only staring down at his glowing block. Maybe...a small TV? Was that possible in the future?

“We’re here,” Christophe shoved the black block into his pocket, sliding out. Victor, with not much other choice, followed.

And in front of them was the  _H.M. Magazine_ headquarters.

That was obvious even without the classy cursive font and logo - slightly different than the one Victor remembered - adorning the building. It was the same building that appeared in a rare edition of the magazine, usually to advertise some contest for a fan to win a visit. Victor had been loyally entering for years.

Christophe took no moment to stare as Victor did, instead sweeping into the building without a second glance. Victor stumbled across the sidewalk to follow.

The other man already had a badge at the ready, flashing it towards the towering security guards, barely breaking stride as he dipped through a metal detector. Victor, casting a worried look towards the tall, uniformed woman closest to him, slowly followed.

“I’m with him,” Victor pointed unnecessarily at Christophe to the security guard, a spike of worry hitting him.

The guard only nodded politely, making no move for a card like Christophe had provided. “Of course, Mr. Nikiforov.”

Oh. They knew his name. That was... _really_ cool.  

Christophe gave them a tight smile, grabbing onto Victor’s arm and pulling him away. The elevator was already there, waiting, the few people inside vacating almost instantly the moment Victor and Christophe were in sight. Christophe - with his perfect suit, neutral voice, careful language - he must be a big deal here.

The elevator went up to nearly the top floor - remarkable for such a towering skyscraper - and Christophe was out of the door before the doors even opened fully.

Christophe went directly to the side desk in front of a large doorway, beginning to set up his things, pressing a few buttons on a large screen. Victor stayed in place, glancing around the office with wide eyes.

Christophe noticed his lingering, giving him a pleasant look. “Is there something you still require, sir?”

“Oh, um.” Victor blinked at the  _sir._ “Uh, where can I sit?”

The other man stared at him for a long moment, “...your office, I presume?”

“My...office.” Victor stated slowly, “I have an office here? In  _H.M. Magazine_ headquarters?”

“Yes,” Christophe was now visibly impatient, gesturing towards the nearby doorway with his free hand. “It’s right there, sir.”

Again with the  _sir._

Victor reached up, only catching himself at the last second as he went to wind a long piece of hair around his finger. Instead, he only rested his hand on his neck. “Um, what do I do? What do  _you_ do?”

“I’m your assistant,” he stated slowly. There was a low bitter tone in his voice that Victor didn’t quite fully catch, “and  _you’re_ Editor-in-Chief of History Maker Magazine.”

Victor’s mind went white noise.

“I...what?” Victor choked, his hands coming up to his face. “I...am?”

“Yes,” he agreed simply, sighing, before reaching into Victor’s own pocket to pull out the sleek block that had been making noise all morning. Victor carefully packaged his  _‘oh my god future me is the editor in chief for H.M. Magazine, oh my god’_ freak out away for another time. Later, when he was alone and far from anyone who could hear him scream in pure excitement. “Have you answered any of your texts this morning?”

Victor perked up at that - he had a phone, here? He had glanced around a bit when in the apartment for his blocky Nokia but hadn’t had any success.

Although...if this was the future - the present, kinda? - he did suppose he would have probably gotten a new phone along the way.

Like the sleek black block.

“Let me see that,” he frowned down at the box. “This is my...phone?” he pushed on the sides, holding it up to his eyes. “How does the keyboard come out?”

Christophe only sighed, “What did you end up taking last night?” he  _tsked_ , taking the phone out of his hands. “It can’t have been that good if it’s still messing you up.”

“Taking?” Victor gave him a blank look, cocking his head.

Christophe’s annoyed look was turning slightly concerned. “You took something while you were at the club last night, right?

“What are you  _talking_ about?” Victor blinked a few times, trying to catch up with the conversation. Taking something, like stealing? Victor would  _never_ steal, Yakov would surely and swiftly have his skin for even considering the thought. But at a club? Victor had only read a few articles about clubs in magazines, that wrote of drinks and dancing, hundreds of people pressed together for music. But Victor had been studying H. M. magazine since Yakov started letting him buy them with his allowance, and there  _was_ the rare cautionary article on clubs, about bad drinks, worse men, and even some on...

Victor’s look of confusion was instantly overtaken by a look of horror, “Are you talking about  _drugs?”_ He hissed, his hand coming up to his chest. “Christophe, I pledged DARE in middle school. I would  _never_ take drugs. They’re  _illegal._ ” That didn’t seem to satisfy the other man at all, despite the rare note of earnest emotion in Victor’s voice.

Christophe shoved the screen back into his hands, a frown still on his face. “You’re gonna be out of it all day. The committee can’t see you like this - you can hide in your office all day if you want but they won’t like it.” Christophe blew some air up into his bangs, “Not again.”

An opportunity to sit down and evaluate what the heck was going on. “Okay!” Victor beamed, a heart-shaped smile gracing his delicate features. Christophe nearly started in surprise. “Could you…”

Victor glanced around the office, smiling at the few eyes he caught. Those employees immediately snapped their gazes back to their desks, shaking slightly, but Victor paid them no attention. “Could you show me...um...I mean, my office?”

Christophe stared at him for another long moment before walking ahead through the open doorway. Victor, with not much other choice, followed him, and had to stifle down his gasp almost immediately.

His office was  _beautiful,_ a glossy picture of sophistication, like something straight out of a  _Frasier_ episode. He almost expected Niles to be lounging around the corner.

“Oh my god, my office is amazing.” Victor beamed, his hands coming up to his face even as Christophe shut the door tightly behind them both.  

Frosted glass wrapped around the walls facing the office, the beautiful skyline of the city on view out the parallel glass. A dark colored desk, neat and spotless, with crystal and glass paperweights lining up the front, that complimented the dark couch that ran across the wall. Not many pictures, aside from a large black and white painting was a bit boring for Victor’s taste, and the few framed editions of the magazine that lined up on the walls.

Victor let out a breath, his hands fluttering at his sides. “I can’t believe this is  _mine.”_

“This is worse than the Fashion Week acid trip of 2014,” Christophe muttered, setting a bottle of water on the table, guiding Victor to his seat. “If you weren’t paying me a truly absurd amount of money I’d quit right now.” He straightened up, giving Victor a dull look. “I think I’ll give myself a raise after this.”

Victor only nodded happily, “You probably deserve it.” He was still in awe of the wide expanse room, the sophisticated feel that even the  _air_ held. He felt too underdressed to be breathing it. “Hey Christophe, we’re...friends, right?” Victor’s eyes were wide and blue, an openness that hadn’t been there in years.

Christophe gave him a strange look, his hands on his hips. There was a dismissiveness in his voice even as he said, “Sure, Victor.”

Victor didn’t notice the tone, only beaming. That was good!

Christophe gave him a few more instructions - not to step out his office unless absolutely necessary, not to answer any emails or texts if he could help it, a few other orders that Victor mostly drowned out - before finally closing the door behind him, leaving Victor alone.

He settled down in his plush office chair, spinning a few times for effect. He giggled uncontrollably, kicking his feet out. He had managed it after all. Unless this was all a very vivid lucid dream - and than if so, props to Victor himself for his own creativity - then he’d actually reached his dreams. Yuuri was right.

_Yuuri._

He gasped, his hands going to tap blindly at his phone, the screen flashing different colors with every touch. Victor had absolutely no idea what any of them meant.

In his avid tapping, he accidently hit the small button at the bottom of the screen, and the screen went dark.

Oh god, he broke it.

After a second, the screen spelled out a few words.

_How can I help you?_

A small microphone icon was at the bottom. Hesitantly, Victor pressed it. He leaned in closer to the phone, first trying a simple, “...hello?”

There was a slight vibration from the phone. “Hello there,” A neutral feminine voice floated from the speakers, making Victor’s jaw fall open in surprise. He gasped, holding the phone away from him.

Oh god, they had done it. They had made robots. Victor owned a tiny robot.

_This was the best day of his life._

The screen was black, a multi-colored line at the bottom bumping up at every slight sound. It seemed to be waiting.

Victor fumbled the sleek phone in surprise, pressing the button once again. “Um, what’s your name?”

There was no hesitation or lag. The future was  _amazing._ “My name is Siri,” the voice answered,

“How can I help you?”

“Oh, uh, hi! I’m Victor. But you know that. Um. What...are you?” There was a moment of silence. Even robots thought, it seemed.

The robot ignored the question. “Hi there,” it only responded. Victor bit his lip. Many too many questions?

“Are you...a person?” Was Victor talking to a real person, like a phone call? If so, who? Was this Siri another one of his friends or coworkers?

“I’m not sure that matters,” the voice answered simply, the words spelling out on the screen.

Well. Victor supposed it didn’t. Maybe not a person, then. He liked his robot theory.

He shook his head. He had more important things to focus on. “Siri,” he started, watching the words spell out on the screen. This was  _so cool._ “Can you make a phone call for me?” Victor was nearly certain there would be no way he could figure it out on his own, and Siri seemed to want to help.

“Sure,” the voice answered, relief hitting Victor like a wave. “Who do you want me to call?”

“Call Yuuri,” his voice nearly fell into a beg, his fingers turning to clench at the metal. Yuuri would know what to do - he always did. Yuuri, other then Yakov, was the smartest person he knew. Yuuri - Yuuri could help him, fix whatever was going on here.

There was a pause, as Siri must have thought over the request. Finally, after only a few seconds, the device lit back up with words and voice. “Sorry, you don’t have anyone named ‘Yuuri’ in your contacts.”

Victor bit his lip. Maybe he had the boy saved in as some other contact. He tapped his way over to the number pad, a bad feeling bubbling in his chest.  

He had long since memorized Yuuri’s cell phone number but was careful as he typed it in, mouthing the numbers as he did so. He waited a few seconds, staring at the still screen, and tapped the green phone icon. A good start, it would seem, as the screen changed and a dial tone started up.

He pressed the screen to his face, his knees coming up to his chest, and clenched his hands when almost immediately, the call went straight to a prerecorded message declared the number out of service.

Okay. Okay, this was fine. Everything was fine - Yuuri probably got a new phone too, and maybe Victor hadn’t managed to program it in yet.

“Siri,” his throat bobbed, “Call Yakov.”

Another few seconds, another dead end. A voicemail this time, instead excusing his absence on a vacation in St. Petersburg with - and Victor let out a low sigh of relief - Yura, saying they would be back in a week, and demanding the caller not to clog up the machine with a message. Same old Yakov, it seemed.

Victor would be lying if he said he didn’t process that with a bit of relief. But also -

“I can’t believe they went to Russia _without_ me,” His voice was scandalized in the silence of the room. After another moment - mentally preparing his dramatic monologue he was sure to go off on once he was with them again - he returned to his phone.

He had a truly absurd number of contacts but in comparison a nearly vacant amount of text conversations. One with Christophe - which seemed to be mostly tasks sent from Victor’s own phone, a few more professional sounding conversations that nearly had Victor bored to tears, a single other conversation from what sounded like a lost food delivery driver. Where were all Victor’s friends?

He bit his lip, holding his phone to his chest.

Yakov, Yura, and Yuuri weren’t even listed there.

Maybe he just preferred to talk to them in a different way, emailing or IM-ing online. That would make sense - that was how he and Yuuri would talk at night when their parents were taking up the landline.

Yeah. That made sense.

He spent the majority of the morning talking to Siri - she wasn’t much for conversation but seemed alright with answering any of the questions he could come up with - about celebrities and pop culture, mostly.

 _Dawson’s Creek_ had ended, apparently. Yuuri was going to be heartbroken. That was  _their_ show.

Well, he would have been. Past tense.

He shook the thoughts out of his head. He’d probably just forgotten everything for a bit, perhaps he hit his head or something, but give it a few days and he’d remember where he kept Yuuri’s phone number, and Yakov and Yura would be home from Russia, and they’d all laugh about it. Victor was sure.

But he couldn’t sit around and think about that all day.

Outside his office door, there was a flurry of movement obvious though the shadow and reflection that played across the frosted glass. Victor couldn’t see a single thing outside into the room - that must be horrible. How did people know he was in here so to come talk to him?

But that did inspire something - mostly the thought of his empty stomach.

“Christophe?” Victor gave him a heart shaped grin as he peeked around the doorway to his desk, “Wanna get lunch?”

Christophe gave him a nod, as if expecting this, and typed for a few more moments before standing. “What do you want?”

Victor shrugged happily, reaching for his own coat from where Christophe had hung it that morning. “Whatever you want! I’m not picky.”

Christophe paused where he was gathering his things. “You’re...coming?”

Victor cocked his head, still unfamiliar with the lack of hair tracing over his shoulders. “Uh, yeah? We’re gonna go get food, right?”

“I usually bring it to your office for you,” he explained slowly, “you’re...really out of it, aren’t you?”

Victor gave him a bright, if slightly strained, smile. “Nope!” He popped the word, “I’m feeling great, actually! Just want some air. What are you feeling?”

“Uh,” for the first time all morning, the other man looked thrown. “What do  _I_ want?”

Victor nodded, smiling. His short hair flopped around his ears, falling over one of his eyes. It wasn’t a bad hairstyle, now that he was considering it.

Christophe looked unsure, “We could go by that bistro on Fifth Avenue, the one with the  prawn-and-avocado roulade dish you like.”

“Okay!” Victor had no idea what that dish was, “Sounds good!”

Christophe lead them the same way they came - confident and quick-stepped - and Victor lagged behind him. He waved at the other workers hidden behind cubicles and desk walls, faltering when none of them returned his grin. Most of them ducked out of sight, wincing, after catching his eye.

He frowned, looking much more like this regular self, or so several of the workers thought, and followed Christophe out of the building. The other man, thankfully, knew exactly where he was going.

The same driver from before was in the front seat - did Victor have his own driver? - and barely blinked as Christophe relayed an address. After a moment, Christophe closed the small window between them and leaned back.

“Do I have my own driver?” Victor blinked at the closed privacy divider, gaping.

“Yes,” Christophe’s voice was just beginning to hit the edge of his patience. “Raoul.“

“Raoul,” Victor smiled, “I really do have everything -  _wow!”_

Christophe’s low huff of annoyance was not audible enough through the noise pollution of the New York traffic around them. “Yes, sir.”  

The car ride was short - too short, as Victor gazed around the skyscrapers and city in unabashed amazement.

Victor let Christophe lead the short way down the street, confident and cool as he maneuvered his way through the New York crowd, Victor following breathlessly.

New York City. _Wow._

The other man made a sharp turn into a small darkened doorway, Victor scrambling to follow.

“Mr. Nikiforov, Mr. Giacometti,” The front of house nodded to them as they entered. Victor had to stifle an excited giggle. “Pleased to have your acquaintance.”

Christophe held up two fingers, barely sparing a look towards the other man. “Two tables, please.”

Victor shot him a wounded look. “You don’t want to sit with me?”

“You...want us to share a table?” Christophe gave him a quizzical look, “You usually insist on eating alone.”

Victor’s mouth smoothed out in a line, “Well, today I want company. Let’s sit?”

Christophe, after shooting a weird look to Victor’s back, followed after a moment of hesitation.

Victor threw himself into the booth, bouncing lightly on the plush leather cushion. Christophe slid gracefully across from him, still eyeing the other man.

The waiter, a nervous looking young man, came up to them, nearly trembling. Victor gave him a reassuring smile. Must be his first day on the job, so exciting!

The smile only seemed to trip him up more. “What - what can I get for you, Mr. Nikiforov?”

Victor lit up - he knew his name, that was so cool! Victor must come here a lot. Victor always wanted one of those kind of places, where he could stroll in and suavely order  _the regular._

The waiter was waiting for an answer. Victor glanced at the table top for a second - there were no menus. “What do you have to drink?”

“Well, uh -” The waiter’s voice cracked, “we have the Chateau Margaux 2009 you got last time you were here, as well as your choice of -”

Victor bit his lip. Sure, he was excited to try everything his new thirty style life had to offer but after everything that had happened today, he was craving something more familiar.

“Do you have orange soda?” Victor gave him a reassuring smile. “In the can?”

The waiter gave him a wide-eyed look. “Orange… soda? Like, Fanta?”

“Sure,” Victor agreed happily, turning back to Christophe. His jaw was slack in surprise. “Christophe, anything to drink?”

The other man took a breath, seemingly coming back to himself, and ordered his own drink - something French and utterly impossible for Victor to repeat.

The waiter was stiff and tense now, his arms folded behind his back. “Anything...else?”

“Oh,” Victor dragged out the word in excitement. “Can we get some mozzarella sticks? Yakov never lets me get them!” He paused, “Um, when I was little, I mean.”

Christophe gave him a weird look as the waiter took down the order.

“Mozzarella sticks?” He considered aloud. “Munchies, maybe?”

“I always have the munchies for mozzarella sticks!” Victor agreed happily. “Have you ever had them here?”

“They  _definitely_ don’t serve mozzarella sticks here,” Christophe thumbed a bit of the condensation off his water glass off, flicking it onto the pale tablecloth.

“Oh,” Victor cocked his head to the side, “why did they let me order them?” He gave the other man a small pout, “I was really craving them.”

Christophe gave him a doubtful look, “Don’t worry. You’re Victor Nikiforov. They’ll make them.”

He brightened at that. This was all so  _cool._

“So, why are you my assistant?” Victor leaned forward, his head rested on his folded hands. “You don’t want to do this forever, right?”

Christophe blinked a few times, staring at him strangely. “You’ve...never asked me that before.”

Victor paused at that. It seemed he and Chris were together nearly constantly, and Victor hadn’t asked? That was...strange. “I’m asking now,” he smiled, the answer a bit lame.

“I…” Christophe trailed off, “I want to be an on staff photographer for National Geographic. But they said I needed more experience and a stellar recommendation letter and…” Christophe’s smile grew slightly strained. “Who better than Victor Nikiforov to write it?”

Victor nearly squealed in delight, his hands clapping together. “Oh, Chris! That’s so exciting! How much longer do you have with the magazine?”

“I was thinking six more months,” Chris’s voice was very soft, “That’ll have been four years of experience. I’ve been in contact with one of their hiring people and - and they think I have a pretty good chance.”

Victor grinned at him. Sure - working at  _H.M. Magazine_ was  _his_ dream job, but Christophe wanted more than an assistant job forever, so it was perfectly understandable. “That’s great, Chris! What kind of photos do you take?” Hopefully the formatting of photography hadn't changed  _too_ much. Photos were kind of forever, right?

Christophe instead completely ignored his question, counter with his own statement after a moment.

“You’re not upset,” Christophe observed leaning back in his chair. “When Sara quit for TIME you refused to even let her use you as a reference.”

“I did?” Victor blinked a few times in surprise, “But...why? Did we leave on bad terms?”

“She was one of your favorite editors, actually. And she did everything to the letter - even let you know a month and a half in advance.” Christophe sighed, sympathy in his voice. “You were livid.”

Victor’s voice was a breath, “What did I do?”

Chris gave him a hard look, his voice serious. “You made her pack up her desk the day she told you. She was in tears.”

“That’s awful,” Victor looked down at his clenched hands.

There was a beat of silence. “Yeah,” Chris agreed, taking a sip of his drink. “It was.”

Victor swallowed against the tense feeling in the air, his eyes flickering away from Christophe's questioning, intense gaze. With the action, his eye caught on a flash of gold. He gasped.  

“You’re married?” Victor beamed, pulling the other man’s hand closer to inspect the gold band. “Chris, that’s so exciting!”

“Engaged,” Christophe corrected him, shaking his head and pushing his hand through his hair. It was like he was winding up for something. “Yeah. I am. I’ve told you this.”

“Oh,” Victor bit his lip, “well, I’m really happy for you, Chris. You’re a really nice person.”

Christophe clenched his jaw at that, glancing away. There was a fire in his eyes. It suddenly felt much too tense.

“Are you...okay?” Victor tried, fiddling with the paper napkin, ripping it into bits.

Christophe took a breath, “Actually, I’m not sure.” He swept his hand through the air, “Because I have no idea what’s going on and it’s freaking me out.”

Victor’s eyes were wide. Was he actually so bad at being himself that he couldn’t last a few hours? “What...what do you mean?”

“You just keep -” Christophe gestured vaguely to the air, “pretending we’re like, best friends or something. Before today you’ve never called me Chris, or gotten lunch with me, or any of this. And, like, I don’t think you’ve ever even laughed in my presence and  _especially_ never asked me questions about my life? And this just doesn’t seem like a bad hangover or spoiled leftovers from last night.” Christophe was rambling, “So I’m not sure if this a new article idea -  _befriending your help_ or something - but I don’t want any part in it, Victor. I’m your assistant, not your trend guinea pig. I’m relieved you agreed to write my recommendation letter but - but I’m not sacrificing my  _dignity_ for some cover quote.”

“I’m not -” Victor held up his hands in plea, his eyes wide. “I’m don’t - I’m not -” Victor took a breath, swallowing. “This isn’t for the magazine. Or anything.”

“Then why?” Christophe’s voice was a near demand that even he still startled with after a moment.

“I don’t -” Victor took a steadying breath, his hand still clenched around Christophe’s sleeve. “You said we were friends earlier,” Victor glanced away, “it’s okay if you were lying. But I would like to be.”

Christopher seemed to be suspicious of the entire situation. “And  _why_ is that?”

Victor let his shoulders drop. “Christophe,” he started, rubbing at his collarbone. He thought to his nearly empty phone log, the text conversations that only related to work, the blank and neutral tone Christophe carried with him. “It seems I don’t have many friends here. But…” he trailed off, tracing invisible patterns on the table. “I’d like to change that.”  

Christophe still held a suspicious look in his gaze. Victor tried again, wishing he still had his long silver hair to flip over a shoulder before leaning in.

“So…” Victor flashed him a blinding grin, “Friends?”

Christophe, still in a state of surprise and completely unsure what to say, only nodded very slowly, very unsure. A wave of relief hit him. He nearly wilted in relief against the expensive leather booth, grinning widely. Only half a day in and he was already improving his life - he was great at this!

Christophe, though, was still quiet, his gaze narrowed. Victor needed to engage him somehow.

How had he managed to pull Yuuri into such an amazing friendship? If Christophe and him were going to be great friends, he needed to pull out the big guns.

He thought of the first time Victor had met Yuuri. Both boys had been wearing matching Spice Girls shirts, and Victor had proclaimed that a sign from the gods before attaching himself to the other boy for the rest of their elementary and junior high years. 

Vaguely, Victor wondered if older Yuuri remembered that, but returned his focus to the man in front of him. He bit his lip.

Victor was wearing silk pajama pants; Christophe was dressed in sleek dark lines. Not that, then.

But...

“Celebrity crush,” Victor grinned, leaning across the dark wood table, his hands fanned out. “Which of the ‘N Sync guys would you date?”

Christophe wrinkled his nose, finally more relaxed. “Oh god, ‘N Sync? I haven’t listened to them in _years.”_ He thought for a moment, his head resting on his cupped hand. “I love Justin, but probably Lance. Being the only gay member, you know, actually puts him on the playing field and everything.”

There was a moment of silence.

Victor gasped.

“Lance Bass is  _gay,”_ Victor’s voice was of complete awe and astonishment, “I - oh my god. This changes  _everything.”_

Christophe gave him a curious look. “Yes. You know that - I’ve watched you spend the entirely of a red carpet exclusive flirting with him. It’s on Youtube.”

“I -” Victor forced himself back under control. “I just, uh, forgot. You know how it is.”

It was a lame excuse, so thin Victor could practically snap the lie in half, but Christophe didn’t question him on it past a curious look.

They finished up their lunch - the mozzarella sticks brought out were wonderful even if the main dish did make him wrinkle his nose a bit - and Chris even made some conversation with him, once he stopped looking so strained.

They made their way back to the office, Christophe still frowning slightly as Victor babbled on most of the drive back, but was at least nowhere near the strain of tense he had shown at lunch.

Chris gestured towards his desk, “I’ve got to get some work done but I had one of the interns grab your laptop from your apartment, it should be on your desk.”

“Oh,”  _What in Britney’s name is a laptop_ , Victor thought frantically, keeping his smile in place. “I’ll get to that, then!”

Christipe waved him off, watching the other man with a narrowed, still slightly suspicious eye, as Victor disappeared into his office. Here, at least, Victor could collect himself.

He sat at his desk, bouncing on the plush leather seat, before facing the desk itself. There wasn't much there, not even a rouge Post-It note for Victor to look over, only neat stacked papers, none of them interesting at first glance, a single locked drawer, and, what Chris must have been talking about, a clean sleek piece of tech awaiting him.

He stared at it for a long moment. The logo, a small white apple, looked strangely familiar. After a few moments, it clicked.

An iBook! Victor had seen a few of his classmates with them, but Yakov had always claimed them to be too expensive. Did Victor manage to get one, a much fancier looking one admittedly, in the future?

He really _did_ have everything. Victor was almost in awe.

He poked at the iBook - _laptop_ , he reminded himself - and opened it up, frowning slightly.

...Maybe this was best figured out later.

He surveyed the rest of his office, taking a closer eye to it then before. Not any photos, unlike Victor’s old locker back at the middle school which was nearly bursting with color and printouts of Makkachin in various outfits. No color, not really, other than from the lineup of past issues. Bored, a seemingly not going to figure out his laptop anytime soon, he ran his fingers up and down the issue spines, pulling one out at random. It would do him good to catch up with that was fashion now, after all.

After only a few pages in, he frowned. Was the magazine like this when he was young? Blank faced models staring out, the only occasional splash of color being across a woman’s lips, the accent in an advertisement. This was hardly any fun to read.

It was a few more hours of this - flipping through the magazines, poking at his phone mostly -  before Christophe was back, lingering in the doorway. Victor gave him a friendly smile.

“Are you going to be in by nine tomorrow?” Christophe asked, “Or should I come by your apartment again?”

“I’ll be ready,” Victor promised. Christophe nodded.

“Your car is here for whenever you’re done,” Christophe paused in the doorway. “Should I let Raoul know you’ll be down?”

Victor jumped up, his office chair going spinning behind him. “Yes!”

He could finally get back to his apartment, maybe find out what exactly was going on. Find out more about himself, at the very least. He grabbed his things, humming under his breath, and swept out of the doorway.

He paused, his coat in his arms, and lingering in front of Christophe’s desk. The other man glanced up, expectant. Maybe…?

Victor hesitated before finally speaking. “Do I have a Yuuri in my contacts?”

Christophe raised an unimpressed eyebrow, “Yuri, your little brother? Yes, Victor, you have -”

“No,” Victor cut him off with an apologetic look, “Um. Yuuri Katsuki? Do I have his number?”

Christophe gave him a curious look, turning to tap away at his tablet. “Not that I have listed,” He answered after a moment, “but if you have his information, I can look him up.”

“Oh, um.” Victor blinked a few times. “We actually grew up as next door neighbors. I know his parents used to own the spa and hotel in town but, um, the number I had was disconnected.”

Christophe wrote down the limited info Victor had - info that was probably years outdated for all that Victor knew - and promised results. Victor gave him a wobbly smile that Christophe, after a moment, returned himself.

Good. Progress.

He made his way down the elevator and lobby to the street where, surprisingly, the familiar long stretched limousine was already waiting.

Victor...could get used to this lifestyle. Once after he got in contact with his friends and family, obviously.

He slid into the backseat, beaming as he bounced on the expensive leather, and grinned at his driver through the mirror. Raoul, however, gave him no response. Victor tried a bit harder, unclicking his seatbelt to lean forward.

“How long have you been driving me?” Victor asked curiously, edging closer to the privacy divider.

“Eleven years, Mr. Nikiforov.” He answered.

Victor hummed, “That’s cool!”

“Yes, sir.” He only agreed, going quiet. Older Victor didn’t seem to have a lot of conversation with the people he saw everyday. That was...weird. Yakov usually had to yell at him for making conversation with the grocery ladies and neighbor dog walkers. Maybe it finally stuck when he got older.

Raoul said nothing for the rest trip, not even announcing when they pulled up, simply flipping off the radio and waiting for Victor to leave.

“Thank you,” Victor have him a wide smile, hoping it didn’t come off too awkward. “Have a nice day!”

He carefully shut the door behind him, Yakov hated when he was careless, especially in regards to Yakov’s ancient box car, and approached the skyscraping building. He vaguely remembered the location of his apartment from that morning, and hoped to all that was Britney Spears he wasn’t wrong.

“Oh,” he blinked as a tall, thin boy ran forward to open the door for him. Dark, rich red uniform, nicely pressed, an elegant logo on his breast. He was nearly out of breath as he jerked the door open, propping it open with his foot.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” the teenage bellhop looked close to bowing as he kept the heavy door open, his voice high. “Did you have a nice day?”

Victor could only dramatically sigh, dropping his shoulders, as he swept through the doorway. “It’s been such a long day -” he narrowed his eyes as he read off the nametag, “Drew. How was yours?”

The question only seemed to push the boy off balanced, confused as Victor’s grinned in thanks. “It was wonderful!” His voice cracked, his face matching the dark rogue of his uniform. “Absolutely perfect!”

Victor matched his tone, beaming. “That’s great!”

“Yes, sir!” The boy’s voice only rose another nervous pitch. Dogs nearby beware.

They faced off with matching ecstatic beams, Victor honestly, truly joyful he had found someone so willing to smile, Drew nearly fearing for his life. Or worse, his  _job._

“Well, have a nice night!” Victor’s smile, impossibly, grew wider as he waved and went off. In the background, unnoticed to Victor, the teen slumped over the nearly surface and let out a breath.

He made it up to his apartment - thank you Britney! - and only took a bit of shuffling with his keyring before he was back inside. Somewhat disheveled from this morning, but nothing he couldn’t deal with.

He checked out the rooms properly this time, slightly bored with the decor but eh, he could work with it. He paused, his eye catching on the pile of shoes he had left in the doorway, and bit at his lip, unsure.

Yakov must have Makkachin, wherever she was. Current Victor seemed so busy, it was probably best for her, having all of Yakov’s and Yura’s attention. Victor was probably working such long hours and never home and...it was probably best for her.

Still. He’d do anything right now for a quick hug and kiss from his favorite pup.

He let out a breath, more a little choked up over the thought of his dog, and returned back into the living room. It was such a large space to have all to himself. It was the kind of place that looked better with people in it, he could already tell. When Yakov and Yura were back in town, he’d have to have them over immediately. Maybe  _they’d_ know what was going on.

He turned back to the task at hand. He had to get more familiar with what was going on, Christophe wouldn’t let him blame this all on bad leftovers or whatever forever.

Well, if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And that meant knowing all there was to know about current  _fashion._

“Siri,” Victor threw himself on the couch, his feet in the air. “What  _are_ the Kardashians?”

* * *

If there was one thing Victor was the absolutely the most disappointed with in his future-present it was his  _closet._

How foolish and naive Victor had been that morning, bouncing in place as he ran to flip on the lights and get ready for the day. He had been ecstatic, saving the exciting task for the morning. He had gotten up two hours early, Victor wasn’t sure he had ever gotten up two hours early for anything.

He was the Editor-in-Chief at one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world.

But Spears, it didn’t show.

He had gapped in horror that morning as he surveyed his limited options. He didn’t think he had ever seen such a collection of dark colors outside of a funeral.

 _And they were all in his closet._  

He needed a fainting couch solely for this ordeal. He’d have to ask Christophe how to get one, if this was the reality he was living in.

He worked with what he had, although it seemed like a shopping trip was in  _desperate_ need.

He, somehow, made his way back to the office without much assistance - other than asking a nervous looking receptionist quick directions - and soon he was back on the top floor, in front of Christophe’s desk. The other man was already there, scratching away at some paperwork, but stood once Victor approached, almost on instinct.

“Christophe,” Victor’s voice was a near lament, cutting Christophe off before he could begin his morning announcements. “Do you  _see_ what I’m wearing?”

The other man glanced up, giving Victor a questioning look before answering.

“Something...better than silk pajamas?” Christophe tried after a moment of hesitation, a bit unsure with the teasing, as he let his tablet fall to his side. But Victor only groaned.

“I own  _way_ too many boring colors,” Victor frowned down at [his outfit, a nearly all black ensemble. ](http://www.flare.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/9-Lacerda-TFW-2013.jpg)“This was one of the  _only_ instances of color I had that wasn’t white, black, gray, or tan!”

“You usually stick to base and neutral colors,” Christopher affirmed, eyeing his top. It was cropped, which Victor secretly delighted in. Yakov  _hated_ the cropped tops worn by the models in Victor’s magazines. “I think that was a gift from Lacerda after we did that feature on them.”

“Yeah, well, everything else in my closet is  _super_ boring. What was I even thinking?” Christophe shrugged, not really willing to answer that question, and turned back to his tablet, his fingertip sliding across the surface. A few notifications blinked back at him. Victor nearly fainted from boredom.

See? Fainting couch. So incredibly useful.

Victor’s eyes lit up in idea, “Hey, can I take a day off? Go shopping?”

Christophe had his schedule up in a second, “You don’t have anything important today, just minor stuff I can push back.” He bit his lip, “JJ’s people are still unhappy about your cancellation yesterday but they should be fine as long as you make the meeting tomorrow.”

“So…” Victor trailed off with the word, leaning forward onto Christophe’s desk eagerly.

“You haven’t taken a real vacation in -” Christophe flipped through a stack of papers. “Six years. One day off shouldn’t hurt.”

Victor nearly fist bumped. Hell yeah, day’s off were the  _best._

He paused, thinking it over. A thought occurred to him. “If I’m off, what do you do?”

Christophe paused, considering. “I...don’t really know. You’ve never taken a day off before.”

Victor grinned suddenly, slapping his hands on Christophe’s desk in excitement. “Let’s go shopping! I  _need_ more color and you can help me!”

“ _Me_ helping  _you_ with your fashion choices?” Christophe gave him a doubtful look. Victor’s hands were clasped together, wide eyes persistent.

Finally, Christophe relented. “Alright,” he was already calling up Raoul, updating him.

Victor beamed, “We’re gonna get the coolest clothes ever!”

* * *

“Are those...platform sneakers?”

Victor held them to his chest in excitement, nearly vibrating with the emotion. “The only pair left!”

Christophe gave him a doubtful look, “From 2001, maybe.” He gave him a curious look, “Are you trying to bring the 90s vintage look back or something?”

“Or something,” he smiled, kicking off his plain loafers without thought. From his side, Christophe made a wounded noise at the expensive leather scuffing together.

“They’re perfect,” he sighed, angling his foot to be a better look at them.

Christophe gave him a raised eyebrow but said nothing.

Victor stood, taking a few steps and already stumbling into the nearest shelf. Giggling, he pushed his hair back and struggled to regain his balance.

“This is the weirdest thing ever,” Christophe mused, “shopping with Victor Nikiforov as he stumbles around in old 90s trends.”

“I'm totally getting these,” Victor grinned, shoving them back into the box and hugging it to his chest. He froze after a moment, staring over at the register. “Wait…”

Christophe was already on top of it, his hand extended towards the other man.

“Here,” Christophe held out his wallet. He must have grabbed it for Victor off his desk. “Your credit card.”

“I…” Victor held up the sleek black card close to his face. “I have a credit card?”

“Yes,” Christophe answered absentmindedly, scrolling away on his phone. “You left it at the office.”

“Is there a limit on here?” Victor examined the thin piece of plastic, in awe.

Christophe thought for a moment, “I actually don’t know. But you once spent almost 30k at Hermés after a bad sales week, so probably not.”

“Thirty...thousand?” Victor was breathless.

Christophe nodded, pulling up his call screen. “I can call and ask if you want to know -”

“No,” Victor breathed out, cradling the plastic. “No, that’s…fine.”

This changed….everything.  

“Christophe…” His voice was a low tone that immediately made the other man’s shoulders go tense. That was Victor’s editorial meeting voice, when nothing was right and veering left. But instead of his traditional cold, hard eyes - he was nearly shaking in awe. “Christophe, this changes _everything.”_

* * *

“...Turtlenecks? Really?”

“I can  _totally_ pull them off now,” Victor gushed, waving the fabric around. From the side, the sales associate nearly threw herself forward to keep the pale cashmere from hitting the floor. “Oh, they even have them striped!”

Christophe shared a look of bewilderment with the associate, both slightly desperate. Neither of them had any idea what to do.

* * *

“And Mr. Nikiforov, you would like…”

“All of these,” Victor smiled sweetly, “seven pairs of overalls.” He thought for a moment. “Do they come in any other colors?”

Christophe had taken a call outside the store, still shooting Victor confused looks. Victor perked up after a moment, “Do they come in pink?”

The sales manager almost bowed over the clothing in protectiveness. What was he going to  _do_ with them?  _Burn_ them?

Everyone knew about Nikiforov’s hatred for denim.

_Everyone._

“Or yellow?”

The sales manager lifted up her chin slowly, only barely trembling. “We...have some in the back.”

Victor clasped his hands together, obvious to the worker’s distress. “Great!”

* * *

“Oh, wasn’t that  _so_ much fun, Christophe?”

The other man looked shell-shocked, as if shocked from the amount of shopping Victor had managed to accomplish. He swallowed, “It was...an experience.”

“I got the  _cutest_ pair of strappy sandals,” Victor sighed, hugging the bags to his chest. “We should  _totally_ do -”  

Christophe cut him off, grabbing his sleeve and pulling roughly before Victor could turn onto the next street. Startled, he looked to the other man, a surprising dark look on his face.

“Paparazzi,” Christophe muttered darkly, hooking his hand around Victor’s elbow to pull him away. In his other hand, he tapped away quickly at his phone screen before cursing. “Someone caught a picture of you shopping, they’re probably lined up from here to the office.”

Victor could barely hide his look of surprise, “Me?”

Christophe was texting with one hand, dragging Victor with other. He ignored Victor’s question. “Raoul is waiting on the next street over, by the Starbucks.” He let go of Victor’s arm, passing over the few bags he had been carrying in his elbow. “He can get you back to your apartment without much hassle.”

“Oh,” Victor paused, giving the other man a stranger look. “Aren’t you coming?”

Christophe waved him off, “I’m heading back to throw them off.” He checked his phone one last time, “You’ll be in the office tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” He said, beaming. The other man turned to walk away but, at last second, turned to give his boss a hesitant grin of his own.

Christophe, at least, was getting a bit more used to the smiling.

* * *

“Morning Christophe!” Victor threw his heavy coat over the coat rack, turning to accept his the cardboard cup Christophe held out automatically each morning. After his first two days of quietly dumping his usual order down the bathroom sink, he finally asked the other man to switch his order to hot chocolate. Much better, in Victor’s opinion.

But Christophe wasn’t already holding out the cup as usual, instead staring down at Victor’s legs with raised eyebrows.

[“You’re wearing jeans,” ](http://cdn3-www.thefashionspot.com/assets/uploads/gallery/relive-the-90s-with-springs-runway-inspiration/dkny-ss-14.jpg)Christophe frowned. “Very...colorful jeans.”

Victor kicked out his legs in excitement, “I saw them in the window and I just _had_ to have them.”

Christophe was still struggling with processing what he was seeing. His eyes were wide, even as Victor playfully posed for the other man.

“You banned jeans in the office over seven years ago,” Christophe gave him a confused look, “is that rule just, off for today? Is this a new style?”

“I banned jeans?” Victor could barely control his gasp. “But I love denim!”

Christophe only gave him a shrug, still staring down at Victor’s legs in question. He seemed almost perplexed by them.

It was Victor’s turn to frown. “Do you not like them?”

“They’re...not bad. Despite my initial thought,” Christophe examined the jeans for a few more seconds. “It’s very grunge. You’re still on your 90s kick, then?” Victor nodded happily, Christophe continued. “People will be expecting a feature, then. I’ll let the other editors know.”  He paused, narrowing his eyes at Victor’s face. “What’s on your face?”

Victor nearly squealed in excitement at the question. He had checked  _three_ different stores before finding them last night.

“I got them from Claire’s,” Victor explained, pulling out the clear sheet of plastic, already grinning. “Want some? The green ones would look  _great_ on you.”

Christophe took the sheet, frowning in confusion. “...Claire’s? I haven’t heard of it.”

Victor gave him a wide eyed look, “Claire’s is the  _best._ I got my ears pierced there when I was eleven!” Victor had been annoyed when he saw current him had long since let them close up. Victor had  _bled_ for those.  

“Wait,” Christophe was lowering the sheet, realising.  _“That_ Claire’s? The violently pink, cheap junk store aims at, like, seven to thirteen year olds?”

Victor pouted, crossing his arms. “Well, I  _like_ Claire’s.” He had gotten a new case and handful of charms for this phone while he was in there. He  _loved_ it in there.

“You stepped inside of a Claire’s?” Christophe seemed to be struggling with this. “Did anyone recognize you?”

The checkout girl had choked on her smoothie when he swept through the doors.

“Nope!” Victor popped out, smiling. He took the sheet from Christophe's lax hands, examining. The green ones matched the other man’s eyes nearly  _perfectly._

Victor leaned in, pressing the small gem to the corner of Christophe’s eye. “There!” He beamed, “We match!”

Christophe’s hand came up to brush his own face, the action numb as he stared at the few freckles of color adorning Victor’s skin. Victor hadn’t been able to choose for himself, instead picking an array of pink, blue, and purple.

“New trend?” He tried, his voice weak.

“New trend.” Victor agreed happily, his hands clapping together.

Christophe blinked, pulling away. “I’ll...have Mila write up an article on them, then.”

Victor beamed, “Good idea!”

* * *

Later that day, it was Victor’s first major meeting inside his older body, and he was determined to do it right. Or...at least not get himself fired. Right.

Christophe seemed used to debriefing him on his meetings, at least. He read off his tablet with easy grace, repeating names and jobs and important reminders and pointers such as  _JJ loves to talk about himself, it’ll help loosen him up_ and  _loves his family, his sister just got accepted into University, a good talking point_ and many more, scrawled down in Christophe’s notebook. The other man, thankfully, would be by his side to take notes the entire time, which helped Victor’s nerves in the least.

They arrived last to the meeting, held in their building, a point that Christophe had insisted on, despite them simply waiting in his office space until they all arrived. But Chris seemed to know what he was talking about, so Victor only smiled and went along with it.

They swept in five minutes past the time written on Victor’s calendar, both their faces smooth and neutral - as Christophe reminded him to do in an odd voice - and everyone waiting stood as they entered. Victor still wasn’t used to it.

The women nearest to them, young with chopped dark hair, stepped forward first to greet them, her hands clasped before her.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” The woman smiled politely,  _Isabella_ , Christophe had reminded lowly just as they entered,  _JJ’s manager and rumored girlfriend_. Her eyes flickered quick over him, almost a spark of surprise there. “You’re looking good, I see. I  _love_ the jeans.”

Victor shot a smug look over to Chris, who didn’t even bother hiding his quick, amused eye roll. “Thank you, Isabella.” He liked her, she seemed genuine. A man, tall with dark hair cut similar to Chris’s - was that the style now? - stood up behind her, confidence radiating off him.

The man flashed double J’s as he stood, grinning widely. “JJ is _very excited_ to grace H.M.’s cover with his image.” The man shot a large grin towards his manager, “Has the H.M. Man of the Year been announced yet?”

“It’s only March,” she was somehow smiling fondly at the other man. “We’ll have to wait until November, at least.”

He only waved her words off, a quick smile in her direction, before turning towards Victor with a cocky look on his face. He must be a big fan of his client then. Victor, already, was not nearly as fond of him.

“Well...okay.” Victor gave him a natural smile. “Sorry, what’s your name again? I’m Victor.”  

Christophe had insisted that he didn’t need to introduce himself so much but honestly, that just felt rude. Lillia would  _kill_ him if he started slacking off on his manners.

But the man, his hands falling from the double J’s, only froze, staring at him a bit blankly. The room had frozen and Christophe, at his side, had a death grip on his sleeve.

“That’s  _JJ_ ,” Christophe hissed into his ear, “the man we’re here to  _see.”_

“How was I supposed to know?” Victor matched his low tone, “He keeps referring to himself in third person!”

“That’s his  _thing.”_

“I’m sure it just slipped Mr. Nikiforov’s mind,” his manager- Isabella, Christophe had mentioned - was stepping forward, her hand on the superstar’s arm. She gave Victor a smile almost as neutral as his own, “He’s a very busy man after all.”   

“It’s nice to meet you,” Victor tried again.  

“We’ve met before,” JJ finally spoke up from his frozen position, crossing his arms, “ _several_ times.”

“Oh,” Victor tried to grin, and the meeting only went downhill from there.

Christophe’s grip was tight on his elbow as he pulled him to the side, a brief recess. JJ kept looking over at them with a terse frown, ignoring his team completely.

“Was that some kind of power move?” Christophe hissed, somehow keeping his face neutral. “Which, I mean, fine, okay just  _warn me_ next time.”

“Power move?” Victor’s eyes were wide, “I...did I?”

Christophe stared at him.

“Did you…” He trailed off in disbelief, “Did you...forget the face one of the most major superstars in Hollywood right now?”

There was a guilty beat of silence.

Victor shrugged. Christophe looked stricken.

“I’ll do better,” Victor swore, trying mostly to reassure, crossing his heart. “It just totally slipped my mind.” Which wasn’t really a lie? Good, Victor, keep on that. “Now…” his eyes flickered back to the group behind the glass, “Should we get back? I think they’re waiting for us.”

“Another moment,” Christophe pulled out his phone, fully aware of the attention on them. “It’s better to make them wait, it’ll make them uneasy.”

Victor blinked. He hadn’t thought about it that way.

Christophe, at least, knew what he was talking about.

* * *

The next morning, Christophe rushed up to Victor’s office doorway like a hell storm.

He locked eyes with Victor’s lounged around figure, the other man straightening up instantly. In his hand, his phone shined multi-color.

He swept into the room, striding over to Victor’s couch, and was nearly burning with disbelief and frustration. Chris had been on the phone nearly all morning, speaking to press and being hounded by paparazzi. He had fielded no less than  _three_ phone calls from the committee.

And when the committee calls, _you_   _answer._

Christophe had been failing that particular, very incredibly  _important,_ rule all morning.

Victor sat up in alarm, staring at the other man with wide eyes. The other man was heaving for breath. In a quick movement, Christophe rushed towards the other man.

“What the  _hell_ are you doing to your Instagram,” Christophe snatched Victor’s phone away from him in a second, glaring at both the thin piece of technology and the other man in equal. “No less than  _eleven_ news sites are reporting on it, four of them actual major ones. There’s a twitter  _hashtag.”_

“...Hashtag?” At Victor’s blank look, Christophe only groaned out in frustration.

Christophe couldn’t pull out his own hair over this. It was pretty and expensive and Fabeo would never forgive him if Christophe ruined his careful work. He took a very needed, a very  _careful_ breath. 

“Your Instagram, Victor.” Christophe prompted, his voice holding the severity of death-row. “What are you doing to your  _Instagram.”_

“Instagram…” Victor thought for a moment, his shoulders dropping from where they had risen in alarm. “Oh! The photo app. Yeah, I like that one!”

Christophe gave him a frustrated look, tapping away at Victor phone. “So? What are you  _doing?”_

Victor...didn’t really have an answer for that. What was the big deal? He was just doing what everyone else was doing.

“I saw people posting photos they liked,” He shrugged, “So I posted some I liked. They’re nice, right?”

“This is a photo of a pigeon,” Christophe stated slowly, holding out the photo screen as evidence. “A pigeon attacking half a doughnut.”

Victor beamed, “But look at how  _happy_ it looks!”

Christophe slowly began shaking his head, “People are going crazy, Victor. Everyone thinks your weird photos like, mean some secret message or something. Everyone’s decoding them like  _crazy.”_

“They are?” Victor looked down at his phone in question. “They’re just photos I like. They don’t mean anything.”

“You’re the face of a multi-million dollar company and head of one of the largest fashion magazines in the world,” Christophe was pinching his nose, “You  _can’t_ just post photos of street pretzels and blurry shots of the trashy street.”

“It was a mouse!” Victor gushed, “It was eating a hot dog on the ground!”

“You do understand that’s worse, right? Like, that’s something you understand?”

“It was a cute mouse,” Victor frowned. “If I can’t post photos I like, what am I even supposed to do?”

“Just,” Christophe gestured to the air, “go back to posting the annual city skyline or outfit of the day. I don’t know, your usual stuff.”  

“But that’s so boring,” there was an obvious whine in his voice that Christophe, Victor’s assistant of four years, coach and bystander through hundreds of hangovers, morning afters, and bad trips, had never heard. “Can’t you do it? You like photos.”

Christophe paused, turning slightly to examine Victor’s bored expression, almost as if seeing if the other man was being serious. If Victor was closer to the other man, Chris was almost sure he’d hear his heart pounding in his chest.

“Fine,” Christophe finally agreed despite his stomach flipping at the thought of having  _his_ photos on  _Victor Nikiforov’s_ instagram.  _His_ photos, on display for millions of people to see.

The likes  _alone._

Victor still seemed sadden by the loss of his Instagram, frowning and biting at his lip.

Christophe observed Victor’s downtrodden face for another moment before sighing. “I’ll set you up a spam account and you can post all the ugly New York and bird photos you want.”

Victor perked up, “Really?”

Christophe sighed despite the corner of his lips twitching up. “Sure. I can set it up tonight and have it ready by tomorrow.”

Victor wrinkled his nose. Tomorrow was so  _far away._ A thought occurred to him.

“Christophe,” Victor gasped, grabbing the other man’s hand. “We should have a  _sleepover.”_

There was an intense shot of joy in the question, the thrill of having a sleepover without prior warning - without having to beg Yakov for several days for the rare opportunity. He could have people over  _whenever_ he  _wanted._

But a look of uncertainty flashed over Chris’s face. He pulled his hand away from Victor’s like it was burning. “Victor, no I - I can’t. I  _won’t_.” He threw his shoulders back like he was going off to war, putting some space between them. “I love Matthieu, I’m not going to -”

Victor flinched back, his mouth falling open. “I wasn’t -” his voice was soft, low. “That’s not what I meant. I meant like -” he gestured uselessly to the air, “face masks. And painting our nails. You can show me how you want my Instagram.”

Was… was future him really so bad that Christophe would be quick to assume that?

“Just a normal sleepover,” he clarified once more. “Just regular fun. Movies and bad food.”

Christophe, at least, lost that nervous look on his face. He relaxed just the tiniest of bits, his shoulders dropping. “Just a regular sleepover?” He bit his lip, thinking, a stranger look coming over his face. After a long moment, he let out a small chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve to one of those since high school, at least.”

“It’ll be fun!” Victor’s excitement was back, relief at the other boy’s dropped emotion. “I totally promise!”

Christophe watched him for another moment - his eye catching on the worn knees of Victor’s jeans, his heart shaped smile, his fluttering, excited hands - and after another moment of consideration, slowly nodded.

Victor squealed, jumping up. “Oh, this is so exciting!”

“I’ll be over around eight?” Christophe paused in question, clearly still slightly hesitant.

Victor nodded excitedly, “Yeah! Okay, I’ll be ready!”

* * *

Victor was _not_ ready.

He had left the office only an hour after Christophe had agreed to the sleepover, suddenly remembering the entirely incredibly important fact that  _he had nothing at all for a sleepover._

He surveyed the usual supplies lined up on his counter - chocolate bars, popcorn in bowls, soda in nearly every color, a few other sleepover staples - and bit his lip. Were sleepovers different in the future? Maybe this wasn’t how they went at all.

He almost wanted to return back to the corner store he had made a desperate run into. What if Christophe didn’t like anything he bought? Everything he gotten was more of his and Yuuri’s taste after all.

It didn’t matter - it seemed, from the light knock on his door, a quick peek through the glass hole, that he was out of time. A flush of energy hit him.

“You’re here!” Victor was nearly jumping in excitement as he threw the door open, beaming at the other man.

Christophe held up a paper bag, a duffel draped over his shoulders. “I am,” he tilted the paper bag towards Victor to take.  _“And_ I brought wine.”

“Oooo,” Victor really did jump in place, “wine!”

Victor had never had wine past the few gross sips at church or the single glass at family events.

Victor pulled the bottle from the bag, squealing. “It’s  _pink!”_

Christophe let himself in, toeing off his shoes and hanging his coat. “It’s a nice rosé, one of my favorites. Where do you keep your glasses?”

“Oh, um…” Victor trailed off, glancing towards his kitchen. He had mostly managed to avoid the intimating room so far. Yakov had  _never_ let him cook at home, and this was one of the only rules Victor was content to keep as an adult. “I’ll get them. You can throw your stuff in my room.”

Christophe was already nodding in agreement, pausing for a moment to survey the apartment, before going off in the direction of the hallway. He seemed...unfamiliar with the space.

Victor turned back to the silver chrome expanse of space, biting his lip. He had mostly gotten away with lunches with Christophe and ordering in since he had, well, shown up. He had attempted to fry a few eggs one morning, a brave but foolish thought, and had broken two plates and mug before he had even gotten the frying pan on the stovetop. He was in no rush to repeat that experience, especially with company.

“All the cups are dirty,” Victor only happily claimed, setting down two plastic cups he had found in the back of a cabinet. These, at least, wouldn’t be a casualty of shattering across the hardwood.

Christophe didn’t seem to mind, only taking the cups so he could pour out a small amount into each. Victor had put on a playlist as he got everything ready - mostly popcorn into bowls, candy and pop lined up on the counters as he and Yuuri always liked to do - and sang along under his breath as a sugar pop song played. Britney, of course. He wasn’t one for blasphemy.

“Have you heard the latest office gossip?” Christophe pressed the plastic cup into his hand, leaning back against the bed frame. Christophe had an impossible gift of always looking incredibly at ease with his surroundings, even as leaned across Victor’s bed with a cheap cup of expensive wine.

Victor perked up, falling forward in the bed to kick up his feet, keeping his cup from spilling over. “Gossip?” He gasped, “with who?”

Christophe set off into a story that made Victor blush and gasp in equal points, causing him to lean forward in excitement and groan out in embarrassment.

Poor, poor Georgi.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Victor jumped up from his seat, rushing off into the other room before returning with a wide, silver bowl. He beamed, setting it in the middle of the bed, and grabbed more supplies out of the bathroom.

Victor pinned hair bangs out of his hair, a truly unnecessary amount of glittery butterfly clips standing out in stark color against his silver locks. “I read that oatmeal makes your skin softer,” he explained, gesturing to the metal bowl in front of them.

Christophe let out a small laugh, “That’s so outdated.” Nonetheless, he leaned forward to inspect the bowl. After a moment, his nose wrinkled. “Is there...fruit in this?”

Victor shrugged, already leaning forward to the mirror to begin smearing the goop on his face. “It’s what I had in my cabinet.”

Christophe let out a real laugh this time, “It’s supposed to be plain oats, Victor.”

Victor paused, mid-rub of the oatmeal onto his cheeks, “Oh.” After a moment, he shrugged. “Well, at least we’ll smell like strawberries.”

Christophe observed him for a moment, “I thought you were like, deadly serious about what you put on your skin?” He gave him a dull look, “Don’t you remember the time I bought the wrong face cream? I thought you were going to  _fire_ me.”

He tried to hide his gasp of surprise. “Over  _lotion?”_

“I mean,” Christophe gave him a shrug, “There’s a reason the media calls you ‘The Ice King’ of fashion.”

“Because I love snow?” Victor guessed half-heartedly. “Wait, is that why people always comment snowflakes on my Instagram?”

Chris gave him a sympathetic nod.

Victor sighed, his hands dropping. “I thought they were just wishing me a happy winter.”

“It’s  _March.”_

He shrugged, “It’s still cold.”  

He sighed again, staring down at his hands. They were so much older than he remembered. He didn’t even  _know_ hands got older.

The silence was getting slightly uncomfortable, with Christophe pursing his lips. Victor forced a smile.

“You can wash your face before you put the mask on!” Victor gestured towards the cracked open bathroom door. “There’s soap on the counter.”

Chris nodded, standing and stretching, before padding off to the bathroom. Victor leaned in closer to the mirror to rub more oats onto his forehead - and what in the world had happened in the past seventeen years to his  _forehead,_ oh  _god_ \- but after only a few moments, Christophe was stepping back into the bedroom.

“Victor…” Christophe trailed off, holding up the small box to show the other man. Victor perked up, a real smile already forming. He had specially ordered it online - which you could do! Press a button and it showed up a day later! The future was truly magical.

Oh. Christophe had asked a question.

Victor blinked, “Excuse me, what?”

Christophe huffed, shaking the box for attention. “I asked, what is  _this?”_

“Oh, I was going to try and give myself frosted tips,” He sighed, bubbles in his voice. “Yakov never let me get them growing up.” There was a stretch of silence. Victor glanced over his shoulder.

Christophe was staring at him in no short manner of horror. He grabbed onto Victor hand, clenching at it for dear life. “Victor,” his voice was as grave as death itself, “Victor, I know you’re going through something weird and it consists of a phase with 90s trends which, okay, a few of them aren’t that bad. But -  but  _Victor_ , frosted tips?” Christophe shook his head slowly, blinking, “You can’t. As your friend, I can't - I  _won’t_ \- let you do that to your beautiful hair. For gods sake, your hair is  _insured._ You  _can’t.”_

Victor paused mid-protest, staring at Christophe’s wide, begging eyes, and slowly started to beam. His hands clapped together, held close to his chest.

Christophe seemed entirely confused by the emotion. “What - why are you so happy?”

Victor grinned, slightly watery. “You called me your _friend.”_

The other man stared at him for another long moment, now in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous,” he seemed to be realizing. “Like, an actually ridiculous man. When did this even happen?”

He shrugged happily, “Just different, I guess.” He risked a quick look towards the other man. “Is it a...good different?”

The other man was quiet for a long moment before leaning in next to the other man, going to apply the oatmeal goo to his own face. “Yeah. It is.”

Even as the oatmeal hardened and pulled on his skin, Victor could only beam.

* * *

The next Monday, after a long Friday night of gossip and old rom-coms that Victor had to pretend he’s seen and  _definitely_ wasn’t crying over for the first time, he was back at the office.

Christophe was going through his usual morning check-list of meetings and tasks, most of which Victor would have to find some way to bluff through.

Silence, he had learned, truly worked wonders. In a meeting, when committee members were staring him down, editors waiting for his approval, and Victor had absolutely no idea what was going on, he could go quiet and neutral and passive, and after a few minutes, the silence would be answer enough. Someone would eventually speak up, or nervously suggest something, and Victor could only usually get away with a nod or hum and that would be that. This must have not been too out of character for him, as not yet no one had questioned him on it, not even Chris, who was becoming increasingly comfortable in his presence.

Oh, Christophe was still talking. Not listening wasn’t...the best when it came to Chris’s checklists. It usually led to the other man pinching his nose and speaking in a low, tense voice which, like, wasn’t the best. He forced himself back to the conversation.

Victor nodded like he knew exactly what Christophe had been talking about. “And the editorial meeting?” He asked, glancing towards the post-it note in the corner of his screen. Those, at least, weren’t nearly as stressful as the committee ones.

“Tomorrow, at noon.” Christophe’s eyes were glued to his tablet as he looked over the schedule one last time. Victor nodded, making a note of it as the other man read over some text.

“Oh also, Yakov and Yuri are back in town,” Christophe flipped his tablet to show Victor the screen. “Yuri won gold for his competition - should I send the usual bouquet and note?”

Victor jumped up, “They’re back?!” He was already shoving his arms though his jacket, “And gold? For what?”

“It says here the World Championships? Sounds prestigious.” Christophe flipped the tablet back and started tapping at it again. “How about a vase and ribbon upgrade?”

“For the -” Victor cut himself off, the thought hitting him. “Yuri _ice skates.”_ He snatched Christophe’s tablet back, going back to the last window to stare in awe at Yuri - oh god,  _Yuri_ , so tall and grown - mid-jump across the ice. “He’s so  _good!_ ”

He shoved the tablet back, grabbing his phone and wallet. “Cancel my afternoon!” He called over his shoulder, “And send Yakov’s address to Raoul!”

“Victor - “ Christophe was cut off by the slam of his office door as he ran off.

In his dash off, he bumped into a young woman, her folders falling from her arms. At the sight of him, she froze.

“Debbie!” He fell to the ground, gathering up all the papers, his voice apologetic. “Sorry about that! Oh, I love your flats!” He beamed, handing the folders back into her still arms. “Have a nice day!”

He was shaking in his seat nearly the entire ride there - longer than Victor had expected but short enough that he was still grinning in excitement as they pulled up. Somewhat longer then an hour he estimated, they were pulling up to a small, modest house, the grass overgrown, the wood paneling peeling. Not Victor’s home, then.

His heart skipped a beat at the unfamiliar house. That was fine. As long as Yakov and Yura were there, that was enough for him. Enough familiarity for him.

And Yuuri - they would know. They  _had_ to.

He pulled out his sparse silver key ring, the metal pieces clinking together with the action. He only had three keys - one for his apartment, his office, and a bronze one he hadn’t figured out yet. He tried the bronze key, biting his lip, and frowned. Nope.

Instead, he settled for knocking against the wood roughly, his excited grin returning. Behind the door, he could very faintly see a shadow warped through the textured glass. Dark fabric, a scowl, gray hair.

The door cracked open, just a bit, and Victor pushed through it, grinning.

“Yakov!” He beamed, throwing his arms around the larger, much more stiff man. He was  _taller_ than  _Yakov._ Oh, wow. This was  _amazing._

 _Oh god_. He stifled down a wild giggle,  _what happened_

“Victor,” Yakov was frowning, “what...what are you doing here? What are you  _wearing?”_

Victor glanced down to [his outfit, ](https://www.forever21.com/images/1_front_330/00165834-04.jpg)“It’s  _fashion_ , Yakov.” He laughed, hugging the other man again. It was just like he was actually thirteen again, hugging and teasing Yakov. Victor had missed it  _so_ much.

But Yakov was pushing him away, a confused look on his face. He took a few steps back in which Victor immediately followed - they were in the kitchen, it seemed.

Yakov seemed pained about something. Had he been taking his medicine? Victor worried his lip between his teeth as the other man began speaking once again. “Your assistants came and picked up all your things, Victor. We gave them all your boxes.”

“What?” Victor shook off his comments, “No, Yakov, I’m here to see you guys! Christophe said you were  _finally_ back in town!”

“Victor -” And why was Yakov calling him that? He hadn’t heard the other man call him his formal name in years, always some fond substitution in place. “I do not know why you’re here. We have made no attempt to use your name or connection in Yura’s skating -”

“Yakov…” Victor struggled for words, interrupting. What was he talking about, no connection to Victor? Had Victor… forbid that? “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I mean, I -”

“I must go lay down, it was a long flight.” Yakov’s gaze was trained on the window outside the kitchen, “Please see yourself out once you’ve collected what you’ve come for.”

Yakov shook his head, giving him an oddly wounded look before stalking away into the other room. Where, Victor had no idea. He didn’t have much idea about any of this house.

“Victor?” An oddly aggressive voice barked out, the word whipping out and hitting him with nearly physical force. Victor turned, already knowing - he would always know when it came to his little brother - and paused at the sight.   

“Yura?” His voice was soft, fleeting.

“It’s just Yuri,” the younger man scowled, letting his hair fall over his face. He was in the same warm up jacket from the photo Christophe had shown him. He was much taller than Victor would have guessed, all his rosy baby fat gone. Victor was nearly breathless with the sight - his baby brother was gone, now a grown man of, what, twenty two?

Victor let out a breath, a grin already warming up, but was interrupted by his brother’s scowling words.  “You know that, old man. What the hell are you doing here?”

Victor blinked at his rough tone, “I just wanted to congratulate you -”

“Consider me congratulated,” Yuri sneered at him, tough and ugly. His angry gaze flickering over him. “Feel free to leave now.”

“What?” A wounded look crossed his face. He blinked in face of the hard emotion, “I - Yuri? What’s wrong?”

“What, no ugly flowers and single sentence card?” Yuri instead questioned, still scowling, “Yakov and I are  _so_ disappointed.”

Victor opened his mouth to respond, most likely another question of confusion, but in the distance, there was barking. A few moments later, a furry head peeked around the doorway. Almost instantly, Victor broke out into a watery beam.

“Oh, Makkachin!” Victor nearly sobbed in relief, falling to his knees and opening his arms. He didn’t want to assume the worst when he woke up in this odd time, but it  _had_ been a long time. Victor had almost been afraid to question Makkachin’s whereabouts, and Chris had no idea who Victor was asking about. Relief was incredibly evident in every aspect of his body. “My sweetheart!”

But instead of the instant tackle Victor had been expecting - the one he used to come home from school to nearly everyday - Makkachin stayed in place, even scooting a bit behind Yuri’s slouching figure.

Victor’s face fell, a picture of confusion. He dropped his arms, “What’s - what’s wrong with her? Why won’t she come?”

Yura rolled his eyes, “You trained her not to jump all over you, you idiot. Said the slobber and dog hair was ruining your outfits.” He spat the words out, screwing up his face in distaste.

Victor blinked a few times, his hands screwing up into fists, as he processed that. He clenched at the fabric of his jacket.

His voice was soft, his eyes glued to the dog as she slowly walked out of the room, her tail barely wagging. She was a lot more gray than he remembered. “She doesn’t live with me?”

Yuri sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “What, is your mind going with your old age?” He ignored the hurt look on Victor’s face, “You had Yakov take her when you got your Manhattan townhouse, you said you didn’t want to worry about her messing up your furniture.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” his voice was soft, more of a thought to himself. Yuri scoffed anyways, rolling his eyes. They had nearly a permanent role doing so.

“Yeah, well.” Yuri shrugged, tipping his head so more of his messy hair fell into his face. God, Victor had hated that growing up.

He cast a miserable look at the doorway Makkachin had disappeared through, swallowing. His heart hurt so much he resisted the urge to check for a physical injury.

Instead, he shook off the emotion, shaking his head at the other boy.

“Your hair is all in your face,” Victor’s voice was the picture of exasperation, “here, take a seat, let me braid it out -”

Yuri flinched away, anger wrinkling up his fine adult features. “What the hell are you doing? Why - why are you even here?”

Victor took a breath, his hands dropping. There was so much here, so much that Victor didn’t even know how to start to deal with, but this - this he could do.

Yuri narrowed his eyes at Victor, so tense he was nearly shaking. “You want something, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I -”  _I don’t want anything,_ almost slipped out. But that wasn’t true.

“I was looking for Yuuri,” Victor explained, his gaze catching on everything so familiar and unfamiliar about the kitchen. The same chipped mug Yakov took his coffee in every morning, the same old metal pots and pans, the same fine painted china tucked away in the cabinet. Nearly everything else was different. “I haven’t been able to get into contact with him.”

“Yuuri?” A look of confusion somewhat replaced the anger on Yuri’s face. “Yuuri....Katsuki?”

Victor gave him a weak laugh, a bad feeling coming over him. “Do I know any other Yuri’s then you two?”

His scowl only deepened, “I have  _no idea_ who you know,” he spat, crossing his arms. “Victor, what’s going the fuck on? Yakov and I haven’t seen you in seven months and suddenly you’re showing up, making the old man’s blood pressure rise, asking stupid questions, and now you’re looking for Katsuki? What the hell is going on?”

“I -” Victor cut himself off. There was no way he would be able to explain this to Yuri, especially with his current glaring daggers and clenched jaw. Victor could only give him a helpless shrug.

They stared at each other for long moment. Victor shifted his weight, uncertain, and ran a hand through his hair. Yuri seemed to be tracking each of these movements. Finally, he huffed.

“You know what? Fine. Fuck it.” Yuri stomped over to the kitchen, opening and slamming drawers without much thought. “Despite your assholeness, the Katsuki’s kept up with Yakov and I after we moved. Here,” He shoved a blue flyer over, scowling. “They gave us a flyer for their new restaurant. Now will you get the  _fuck_ out of my house?”  

Victor took the paper automatically, holding it to his chest, and cast the other boy a wounded look. “Yura -”

“It’s  _Yuri,_ ” he snapped, shoving him towards the door. Victor was stumbling off the doorstep when he turned, catching his little brother glaring at him through the doorway. “And next time, when you need something, don’t bother coming here.” Yuri slammed the door after, cutting off all words, leaving Victor staring at the pale wood of the door.

That was his little brother.

Little Yura, with chubby red cheeks - always sticky - and sparkling green eyes and silk hair, always following him and Yuuri around like a little duckling. Always demanding attention and affection in turn, plopping down in Victor’s lap more often than not.

That angry young man - cursing and tense and tightly wound - that was him.

God, what did Victor _do._

He held the crumpled flyer to his chest, blinking back wetness in his eyes.

A flyer for the Katsuki restaurant. But...after seventeen years, there was no guarantee that Yuuri still lived with his parents. Was he really willing to show up at their family place, especially after whatever horrible things Victor did? He took a deep breath, the breath frosting in front of him. Ice King indeed.

* * *

The flyer laid out on the wood wrinkled and ripped from his grip.

His eyes kept going back to it, his hands folded and still in his lap. He had gotten Raoul to drop him off at the nearest busy coffee shop, where he could hide his silver hair under a hat, go unnoticed, gather his thoughts and nearly broken heart.

He had sent Christophe a photo of it a few minutes ago, wondering if there was any way Chris could check if Yuuri was still there. The other man seemed strangely adept at gathering information. He wondered if his future self -  _present self?_ \- older self had realized that. He wondered if he knew how fortunate, and unfortunate, he was.

Turns out there wasn’t a different way he spoke to Yakov and Yura. He just...didn’t.

He checked his phone, mostly interested in the time, and paused.

A notification from Chris - an address. The coffee cup in his hand - his old usual order, from what Chris had told him - went completely untouched other than his immediate squeeze of surprise at the text.

_Got into contact with Katsuki’s family. A few white lies later, here’s his current address. Let me know if I’m cancelling your tomorrow._

It...was local.

Victor immediately forwarded the text to Raoul, and threw his cup to the bin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor finds Yuuri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks to rina for looking this over!!! <3

Apartment 312.

That’s where he was right now, frozen, staring ahead at the peeling sticker numbers on the door. 3-1-2. Scratched gold print stark against cracked wood. This was the address Christophe had sent. This is where he was. 

Victor took a breath. Another. One more, his eyes fluttering shut. He opened them, and then he knocked.

There was movement behind the door, obvious even from Victor’s place out in the hallway, and he resisted the urge to pick at his fingernails. Yakov was always trying to train that out him. From how perfectly manicured his nails were now, he must have been successful. 

After a few moments of waiting, the door was finally being cracked open, the chain on the door keeping it from opening completely. A pair of brown eyes blinked back at him. From the crack, Victor could see a handful of bills crumpled up in the other man’s fist. There was a long beat of silence before the other man spoke first.

“You’re...not pizza.”

“Yuuri,” Victor breathed out, his eyes wet. “Yuuri Katsuki.”

And there he was.

“Uh,” The door was still linked closed, the other man barely visible through the crack, but it was _him._ It was finally _him._ Victor would know those eyes anywhere.

“It’s me, Yuuri.” Victor’s voice was on the rough side of desperate. “It’s me, Vi-”

“Victor Nikiforov,” Yuuri finished for him, an odd expression on his face. The door was still held to the frame by the thin chain and the other man made no move to fix that.

Victor let out a breath, “Yes, Yuuri, it’s me!” He beamed, stepping closer to the still half-open door. “I’ve been looking for you everything but it’s _me_ , Yuuri, it’s Victor and I’ve finally found you!”

Yuuri was still staring at him through that small space, even as Victor began to wilter a bit from his lack of response. Victor shifted his weight, desperate and unsure. Finally, Yuuri responded.

...with slamming the door.

Victor blinked. And then, after a bit of rustling metal, the door was opening fully.

And Yuuri Katsuki was standing in front of him.

“You can come in,” Yuuri told him quietly, something like a grimace on his face. Victor did so, his eyes wide as he stumbled through the doorway, and turned to the other boy as the door clicked shut.

“Yuuri....” Victor’s voice was a breath, “You’re...you’re _here_. I found you.”

Yuuri’s eyes very briefly flickered up to meet his own for barely a few seconds before skittering away. When he spoke, his voice was tired.

“What are you doing here, Victor?” Yuuri shoved his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders. "Is everything...okay?"

“I came looking for you,” Victor was still wide-eyed at the other boy, still taking him in. “Yuuri, you look so much... _older.”_

“I haven’t seen you since high school, Victor.” Yuuri was rarely meeting his gaze, keeping his eyes light and flickering across the room. “It’s been years.”

Victor blinked at the other man for a long moment, processing. It finally hit him.

 _“Years?”_ Victor inhaled a small burst an air, almost a gasp. “But...but _why_ ? Didn’t I come over for Christmas? Or my birthday? _Your_ birthday? What about _then?”_

“I don’t know, Victor.” Yuuri sounded tired, leaning against the wall and looking greatly uncomfortable. “I’ve seen you maybe a few times on the cover of a magazine but nothing really other than that.” Yuuri gave him an odd look, "You know this." 

Victor persisted, ignoring the last of his words. “But what about Yakov? And Yura?”

Yuuri shrugged, his gaze still away. “They’ve been by to see my parents. Yura asks for help with his choreography sometimes.”

There was a long, long beat of silence, Yuuri still looking away, Victor wide-eyed and gripping at his own wrist.

Victor began shaking his head, slowly at first like he was in disbelief, before getting faster, his breath matching the movement. Soon, sitting cross-legged on Yuuri’s couch, he was nearly hyperventilating.

Yuuri was finally meeting his eye, now looking bewildered and concerned. “Are you...okay?” He fluttered his hands around uselessly, like he used to do when they were kids. “Do you need a glass of water? Or something?”

“Water,” Victor gasped, stumbling back into the wall, his breath now coming faster. “I need - a glass of water! And a fluffy pillow!”

Like taking an order, Yuuri rushed out of the room with a desperate air, leaving Victor on his own, alone in an appearent-stranger’s living room.

Okay. That _wasn’t_ helping. Victor did the only thing he could think of.

Moments later, Yuuri rushed back in the room, now with a glass of water and throw pillow gripped in his hands, before pausing in the doorway. He looked down.

Yuuri blinked down at him, something almost like a flicker of amusement briefly flaring up in his eyes. “You’re...on the ground.”

“I’m too distressed, Yuuri.” Victor held his hands over his eyes, working on controlling his gasps. “You _know_ I get like this.”

Yuuri huffed out a small breath, placing the glass of water on the coffee table closest to Victor. “I didn’t know you still did it, no.”

Victor let out a breath, his hands dropping down to his sides. He stared up at the ceiling, “But…” He trailed, “ _Why?_ Why don’t you know? Why aren’t we friends?” He scrambled to a sitting position, facing the other boy. “What _happened?”_

“I…” Yuuri only shook his head, “I don’t know, Victor.”

“You don’t _know_ how we stopped being best friends?” Victor’s voice was the picture of the despair, “How does that even happen? How don’t you know?”

Yuuri cut a look towards the other man, his eyes ablaze with the first flash of major emotion since Victor had arrived. “How don’t _you?”_

Victor…had no answer to that.

Yuuri was already moving on, shaking his head. “Just...I don’t know, Victor. It’s getting late, and this is completely random. You should get home, Should I…should I call you an Uber or something?”

“I have a driver,” Victor told him a bit numbly. “He’s waiting downstairs.”

“Yes. Of course.” Yuuri dipped his head, “You should be going then.”

“Yuuri, I…” Victor had nothing else to say, something that could perfectly sum of everything that had been happening the past week. Where would he even start, that wouldn’t end the conversation with Yuuri dropping him off at a psych ward?

Yuuri opened the door, holding it open with his foot. His head was still dipped away as he spoke. “Goodbye, Victor. I’ll… see you around.”

Victor’s mouth was parted and open like he was ready to say something, but he had no words. Yuuri began shifting uncomfortably at the doorway, in a way like he never had in front of Victor before. They were always so comfortable together, since the start. But now, so many years later, he couldn’t even look Victor in the eye.

So. Victor did the only thing he could, and he left.

Raoul was waiting, of course, and without word he began heading back to Victor’s penthouse. Away from Yuuri and his dipping eyes and even voice and tense shoulders and back to whatever Victor had made into his life.

“Thanks, Raoul.” Victor’s voice was soft as the other man pulled up to the curb. “For everything.”

There was hardly a moment of thought to follow that. “Yes, Mr. Nikiforov.”

Victor was just beginning to realize how much he hated people calling him that.

He waved at Drew, the young bellhop who was finally starting to return Victor’s smiles and small talk. He seemed fun, someone Victor would have looked up to instead of vise versa.

Christophe had texted him, Victor realized on the elevator ride up, a low empty feeling still carving out his stomach. About work. That was so strange to think of, even as he let himself into his apartment, with every surface reminding him of this new life.

And he was, as it always seemed in this time, alone.

“Siri,” he stared at the ceiling that night, the glowing phone waiting in his hand. “Am I a bad person?”

The voice only took a few moments to think. “I don’t know the answer to that question.”

Victor let out a breath, and fell deeper into the sheets of his too-big bed. “Yeah. Me neither.”

* * *

Christophe set down the warmed cardboard cup with noticeable purpose, giving Victor a look as hot chocolate steam began to curl up from the opening.

Victor looked up from his laptop. It had taken a few hours, and a lot of guidance from Siri, but he was finally able to navigate the tech without much question.

Christophe raised an eyebrow, “So?”

Victor sighed, dropping his hands from the keyboard. He pulled the warm cup closer to himself, breathing in the steam. “So?” He echoed.

Christophe impatiently clicked his fingernails on the wood of his desk, “What, no details? You’ve been obsessed with finding Katsuki for days now, and now not a single word?”

Victor went quiet, staring down at the wood grain of his desk. “There’s not much to say. He didn’t want to talk to me.”

Christophe gave him a considering look, “And you left?”

He took a slow sip of the drink, “I didn’t have much choice.” Christophe said nothing, causing Victor to look up at him in question. “What?”

Christophe shrugged, busying himself with the tablet in his hands, looking like he wasn’t paying much attention to the situation. As he turned to walk out of the office, he glanced over his shoulder, pausing. “I’ve just never known you to give up so easily.”

And with that, he left Victor alone.

Hours later, at the end of the day, Victor slid into the backseat of his waiting vehicle, Christophe’s words still haunting him.

“Home, Mr. Nikiforov?” Raoul’s voice was even, the question there hardly lifting his voice.

Victor tore his gaze away from outside the persperated window. He swallowed, and kept his voice even. “No, actually.”

* * *

“...Victor?” Yuuri had that weary look back on his face. He leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms, and kept his gaze low. “Why are you back?”

It was almost midnight, but Yuuri seemed wide awake. He, unlike Victor, was always a night owl - always wide awake into the late hours of their sleepovers, hunched over a Gameboy or comic book when Victor would have to blink himself awake in the middle of the night.

He was still like that, it seemed. Maybe he hadn’t changed too much, unlike Victor himself.

Yuuri was still waiting for an answer, one that Victor wasn’t sure how to answer. Why, in all honesty, _was_ he here?

“I don't want to be alone,” He rasped honestly. If sadness would have been a note, his voice carried it. "I'm so tired of being alone." 

Yuuri observed him for another moment, biting his lip. Finally, the other man dropped his arms, and gestured for Victor to wait for a moment. With the door still cracked open, he disappeared into the apartment. Victor leaned against the doorway, exhausted, and didn’t bother to ask after him. After only another minute or so, Yuuri reappeared with a small bag, his keys dangling from his fist. “Let’s go, then.”

* * *

The air between them was filed with stiff emotion, and neither were sure how to fill it. With what, and how.

Yuuri was fidgeting beside him, even as he guided them down the curling walkways, along crowded roads. He seemed to know the streets well, and Victor took a comforting sense in that.

Finally, Yuuri’s pace was slowed then stopped. Victor looked up to the building, confused, and then realized.

“This is…” His eyes went wide, recognizing the logo and name painted across the wall. “Your family’s inn?”

“We relocated,” Yuuri explained, messing with his key ring before finding the right one. “Mama won’t care if we take some of the free rooms.”

Dipping behind the main counter, he messed with a large black binder, running his finger over the glossy lamented guide as he examined it. He pulled a set of keys out from under the counter, marked something off the surface, and turned back to where Victor was waiting.

“You can stay here,” Yuuri wasn’t looking at him, instead gesturing to the dark, empty room. The key chain was still hanging from inside the knob. “I’ll be in the next room over.”

Victor’s hands found the stiff edge of his jacket, wrinkling it as he compulsively bundled and unbundled the fabric in his fist. He nodded, and the room was so dark.

“You’re not alone,” Yuuri told him quietly, pausing as he turned away. “I’m right next door.”

Victor swallowed, “Okay.”

And it was, for now.

* * *

 

Victor Nikiforov was no stranger to a Katsuki sleepover.

At least, in his time he wasn’t. Nearly every weekend, unless prohibited for some silly reason by Yakov, Victor was at the family inn, taking up a sleeping bag on Yuuri’s bedroom floor.

Of course now there was no Yakov waiting with Yura in the lunch-in room to pick him up around noon, and there was no neon New Kids on the Block sleeping bag, and there was a much noticeable lack of Yuuri Katsuki himself in this sleepover.  

He woke up late, that was obvious from the darkened light drifting in through the paper shades. Christophe would probably be beating at his door by now, which only served to make Victor feel worse. Reaching for his phone, he was proved correct in both assumptions -- several missed calls and a clock that was edging into the afternoon. He sent a quick text to both Chris and Raoul, as well as excusing himself for the next few days, and dropped the piece of tech back onto the mattress. He might as well get himself up for the day.

It wasn’t until he sat up from the cot, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, until he noticed it.  A fold of paper, lying right before the closed door. It must have been slipped in while he slept. From Yuuri, probably.

Victor padded over, casting a quick look out outside the door, before picking it up.

_Spoke to my parents, they’ve reserved the room for a week. The showers are just beyond the hallway. There’s an inn robe waiting outside your doorway._

_I have to run out. I’ll be back later this afternoon -- my parents are in the main room._

_\- Y_

Yuuri still had the same handwriting, Victor noticed off-hand, flipping over the thin sheet of paper.

That was something strange to notice, probably, but it still held the straight, clear lines that had been forced into the other boy by their fifth grade teacher, after one-too-many one of Yuuri’s assignments were turned in illegible. He had been forced to take extra classes for nearly an entire year, and hated them the entire time. Victor used to wait outside the classroom everyday after school for him to finish.

Victor took a small breath, folding away the paper. He had nowhere to store it in the bare room. He had...nothing at all, now that he considered it. He had arrived at Yuuri’s with nothing at all but his phone. Even his wallet and keys were left abandoned at the apartment.

Well. He clicked his phone screen back on, and slipped over to the correct text bubble. If he was going to be staying for awhile, it was time to fix that.

* * *

After his messages were sent and his phone had lit up with response, Victor had around an hour to entertain himself. Never before a problem for him in the Katsuki home, but the stark lack of Yuuri himself was more noticeable than ever.

He crept around the hallways and corners, not really sure where he was going. He had traded out his wrinkled outfit from the day before for the robe Yuuri had provided him, knotted tightly at the waist, but didn’t even attempt to try and find the showers. He could have walked their previous set-up blindfolded -- a fact he and Yuuri had once tested in a fit of boredom -- but he was having trouble with this maze of hallways even with Yuuri’s vague directions.

He moved to turn back, deciding to simply wait out the time in his room, but right before he did so, he ran into someone.

His hands came out on instinct to steady them, and when his gaze flickered down, his breath caught.

He dropped his hands like hot coals, a blush filling his cheeks, as Mama Katsuki stood before him.

“Mama,” Victor wasn’t even sure how to react. Was he even still allowed to call her that? How had he left them, as horribly as everyone else? He wanted nothing more than to fall forward into one of her hugs, where she pressed her cheek to his head and squeezed tightly, but with that want came equal hesitation.

Yuuri had brought him here, but was he even welcome?

She was so much smaller than he remembered.

She was completely oblivious to the mental conflict waging inside of him. Instead she, for some unknown, incomprehensible reason, smiled up at him.

“Vicchan,” This was the first bought of affection Victor had heard in this time, directed at him, through a warm smile. It almost made his heart freeze up in his chest, mostly out of shock. “You’re here!”

Victor bit his lip, unease still creeping through him. “I - I’m here.”

She beamed up at him. He had been barely taller than her when he left.

Before Victor could say anything else, an automatic apology probably, she began talking over her shoulder, walking down the hallway. Victor, on instinct, followed.

She was already making plans for the both of them, speaking softly but firmly -- her trademark tone. “Yuuri is still gone, but you can help me with the kitchen.” Her hand circled around his wrist, her soft skin slightly damp and bubbly from dish water. He had a sudden flash of a memory of her doing the exact same thing to him and Yuuri, pulling them both along in the grocery store by the wrists. He had forgotten about that -- it seemed so insignificant at the time.

She led him into the kitchens, the set-up similar to the ones Victor had known, and dropped his wrist once they arrived at a counter.

She handed him the chopping knife, a short bamboo board following. “You remember how to cube the cut, yes?”

After all that time spent doing exactly that, he better. He adjusted his hold on the plastic handle, the hold feeling unfamiliar. The muscle memory was there, but the action still foreign.

“Yes,” he answered, just as she began lining up already peeled carrots on the wood, turning away from him to tend to something boiling. He went through the motions, slowly and hesitant as first leaving the pieces choppy and misshaped, but picked up pace as he grew more confident with the knife. Soon, he was dropping the pieces in small bowls and turning to face the older woman, silently waiting for the next task.

Pulling away from the boiling pot, Mama took a moment to push a tray into his hands, stacking a few full plates on it. “Table four,” she simply said, patting his cheek, before turning back to fill up more plates. Mama used to stick him and Yuuri on kitchen busy all the time as kids, when they had too much energy and were being much too rowdy. Despite Yuuri’s quiet embarrassment about it all, Victor never minded it much.

 _Although_ , the lack of hair net in the whole situation was much nicer, despite how much he had grown to miss his long hair.

He smiled at the customers as he laid out their dishes, the men sharing lunch hardly sparing him a look past the first.

That was, at the very least, refreshing.

He was bringing back the tray of dirty dishes, balancing the weight on his hip, when he came across another familiar face.

“Ah, good to see you back, Vicchan.” Yuuri’s dad greeted him with a small smile like Victor had simply stepped out for a day or two, instead of seventeen years. He took the tray from Victor’s hands, gesturing to a side door. “Grab the broom, will you?”

This....was an unexpected sweetness, to say the least. Never before had he thought chores could hold such comfort, even as he bend down to sweep up the dust and dirt into the pan. It was a quick, simple task, leaving him returning back to the kitchens after only a short while.

Mama smiled warmly at him from her place tending to a frying pan, but didn’t offer any more jobs. She must be good for now, then.

He washed his hands quickly -- soaping off the harsh onion odor, the bits of carrot that clung to his skin -- before he wandered back out into the main room with a brief glance at the clock. His hour was nearly up.

And, as he discovered when he returned back to the main room, Yuuri was home.

“Oh,” Yuuri’s blinked back in surprise at him, straightening up in the booth he had taken, his phone clicking off in his hand. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah, I, uh --” Victor took a small breath, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m getting some stuff dropped off.”

Yuuri looked away from him, curling in on himself from his place on the ground. “So you’re staying? For a few days?”

“If that’s okay,” Victor’s words were slow, unsure. “If you don’t mind.”

“You’re always welcome here, Victor.” Yuuri looked away, out the window. “I think your friend is here.”

Victor peeked out from behind Yuuri’s figure and, sure enough, Raoul’s dark vehicle was parked along the street. On perfect queue, his phone went off with a text, Christophe’s name flashing across the screen.

“You shouldn’t keep him waiting,” Yuuri was turning back to his phone, glowing in his lap. He said nothing else, and Victor had nothing to offer. Yuuri was right though, and he went to meet the other man. 

He kept his shoulders loose, his walk casual, as he made his way outside and down the small stone walkway. Despite this, Christophe’s eyes were still concerned as he met Victor half-way.

“Victor,” Christophe gave him an unsure look, “I’ve been trying to find you all morning. You weren't home." 

Victor gave the other man a weak smile, holding up one hand in greeting. “Hey, Christophe. Sorry about that.”

Christophe’s gaze was almost worried, a duffel slung across his torso “I packed a few of your newer outfits you bought,” he gestured to the bag, “I figured you might want those more than your old stuff.”

Victor gave the other man a weak, but grateful, smile. “Thanks, Chris.” He took the bag carefully, throwing it over his shoulder. There was a beat of silence. Chris, staring at him, biting at his lip.

“Are you...okay?” Christophe’s gave him a once-over. Victor was still in the dark green inn robe, his hair a mess. Older Victor probably never let anyone see him like this. And honestly, neither would have Younger Victor.

Who was he now, if he was neither?

Victor rose and dropped one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’m working on it,” his voice was rough, “I’m...going to be out of the office for a few days. Just so you know.”

Christophe gave him a crisp nod, “I’ll take care of your appointments. Keep me updated, okay?”

Victor nodded, not trusting his voice in the least, and watched the other man turn and begin to make his way down the narrow street. He paused.

“And…” he paused, looking over his shoulder. “If you need anything, call me. Okay?”

Victor gave the other man a very, very small smile. At least he was getting somewhere, with someone. “Thanks, Christophe.”

Chris threw a wave over his shoulder, a brief look following, before he was out of sight. Victor let go of a building breath, his shoulders dropping in relief. He turned back into the doorway.

Yuuri was waiting just inside the inn, his gaze still out of the window. After a moment, he spoke, his eyes still averted. “Who was that?”

Victor readjusted the strap of his duffel, “My friend, Christophe. He, uh --” Victor gestured to the bag, “He dropped off some clothes and stuff for me.”

Yuuri went quiet. After a few moments, as if an afterthought, he added, “You’re photographed with him a lot.”

Victor blinked. Was he? “He’s my assistant,” he added on for explanation.

Yuuri said nothing, instead looking down to his hands twisting together. A silence settled between them, even with the few regulars going about their business in the background.

“I’m gonna --” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, awkward in a way it never really had been with him and Yuuri. “I’m gonna go change.”

Yuuri didn’t respond, and Victor dipped back into his guest room.

This was how things were now, he guessed.

* * *

Victor returned, feeling much better with a handful of product in his hair, his teeth brushed, and something other than a stiff robe on his frame.[ A soft sweater he had found in some discount bin and a pair of jeans that had long gone softer, a favorite paired choice of his. ](https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2018-01/4/17/asset/buzzfeed-prod-fastlane-02/sub-buzz-4013-1515103602-5.jpg?downsize=715:*&output-format=auto&output-quality=auto)It was a comfort outfit, something he couldn’t fault himself for wanting. He nearly cried when he saw Christophe had packed it.

He came back into the room, something like hesitation gracing his movements, and took a careful seat next to where Yuuri was still perched. He didn’t meet Victor’s eyes as he came in, his unmoving gaze only set to his phone screen.

Middle ground. Find something that was safe, that was good for both of them, and work it. He could do this.

One of the few servers came up with a steaming tray, crossing in front of them to serve a seated couple. Victor leaned back into the plush seat, an idea coming to him.

“You know what I’m craving?” Victor let his head fall back, his silver bangs fanning out across the cushion. “Your mom’s katsudon. God, she made it the _best.”_

A flicker of surprise echoed in Yuuri’s eyes, “Katsudon? He questioned, a slow but slightly bitter smile adorning his face. It didn’t fit there well, Victor thought. “I thought models didn’t eat katsudon.”

Victor startled, giving him a strange look, “What?”

Yuuri was staring down at his hands. “That’s what you said when we were younger.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably, pulling his legs up to his chest.

Victor swallowed, his eyes flickering around the room. Yuuri's bag from the night before was dumped next to the booth, open. Next to his messy duffel -- and Yuuri was always a bit too callus with his clothes, never the one to properly care for them -- laid a pair of scuffed up leather dance shoes.

He let go of the breath building up in his chest. “You -- you dance.”

Yuuri tucked his feet under the blanket, “Yeah. I'm a dancer at this theater.”

Victor cocked his head, “What happened to skating?”

Yuuri shrugged, keeping his eyes low. Tucked up under him, his feet twitched. “It stopped being fun after a while.”

“Oh,” Victor didn’t really know what to say about that. Except -- “But what about our dream?”

Their shared dream of one day making it real, of skating on the same ice of a competition. The rare, shy thought of a gold metal, usually only whispered through excited giggles or sleepover darkness. It was their dream, the one they told classmates and family members about like it was an absolute.

The frown on Yuuri’s lips only pulled deeper. “That wasn’t a serious thing.”

Victor, even at just thirteen, had considered it a very serious thing. Yuuri seemed to also.

There was a long moment of silence. Victor couldn’t take the stillness for another moment and stood, planning to retreat to his room. At least the air there wouldn't be full with tension. But before he could leave, Yuuri called after him.

“Victor, I --” Yuuri took a small breath as Victor spun around. “I’m...glad you’re here. I am.”

Victor’s eyes were wide, surprised. “I'm glad I’m here too.” His voice was soft. As he stared into the other boy’s eyes -- maybe the most important constant in this time -- hope was on the tip of his tongue like hard candy. Maybe this was salvageable. Maybe he could keep this. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course,” Yuuri made a gesture with his hand, unsure himself to what he was even gesturing to. “I mean, it’s you. Of course.”

Victor...didn’t fully understand what that meant. But Yuuri wasn’t finished.

“I just need some time,” Yuuri gestured towards the air, “to get used to all this.”

“Okay,” Victor agreed, not much sure of what else he could say to that. His hands found their way into his own back pockets, and with the softness of Yuuri’s voice echoing in his mind, he retreated.

It was only barely the late afternoon, yet Victor returned to his borrowed bed. After a long moment of consideration, he pulled up his phone, opened his internet browsing app, and started googling. 

* * *

 

ART NEWS: _TODAY’S NEWS, TOMORROW’S ART_

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GOSSIP ALERT: BEYONCE SAID _WHAT_ ABOUT KIM’S NEWEST INSTAGRAM?...  _READ MORE_

 ...

THE BEST OF TIMES, THE WORST OF TIMES: THE MOST ICONIC, THE MOST CRINGE-WORTHY, AND THE MOST MEMORABLE LOOKS OF NEW YORK FASHION WEEK... _READ MORE_

 ...

WEB EXCLUSIVE: _I WORKED FOR VICTOR NIKIFOROV FOR SEVEN MONTHS AND HERE’S WHAT I LEARNED.... _ _READ MORE_

 ...

WHAT PERIOD OF ART ARE YOU BASED ON YOUR BRUNCH ORDER? _TAKE THIS QUIZ TO FIND OUT!_

...

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_WEB EXCLUSIVE: I WORKED FOR VICTOR NIKIFOROV FOR SEVEN MONTHS AND HERE’S WHAT I LEARNED by NATALIA TAYLOR_

_..._

_MY NAME IS NATALIA TAYLOR AND I WORKED FOR VICTOR NIKIFOROV FOR SEVEN MONTHS BEFORE LAST MONTH I WAS FIRED WITHOUT WARNING._

_Already by simply knowing my name, you have gotten further into a relationship with me than my former boss ever did. In the months I worked in the New York_ H  & M _office I was called a variety of names such as ‘Noell,’ ‘Natasha,’ ‘Naomi,’ and ‘Nicole.’ A part of me strongly believes that Nikiforov knew exactly what my name was, but never addressed me as so. It was quite obvious he took some kind of odd pleasure in messing with his employees, and I was no different._

_We’ve all heard the horror stories of Victor Nikiforov. The infamous recording of the 2015 Paris fashion week comes to mind the most. His party boy lifestyle paired with his massive self-made fortune has made him the life of every party, the star of every red carpet, but the horror of his own office._

_On a typical day, I would usually arrive to the office around 7 to 7:30 A.M., paired with my Starbucks and I.D. card, and would take the elevator up to the top floor of my dream job._

_Before 9 AM the office was like every other magazine I’ve worked out. A bit messy, a bit loud, with tired journalists lined up at their desks. We’d talk about the latest trends, our newest article ideas, and touch up this morning’s lipstick after eating an everything-but-dairy bagel. Before 9 A.M., I loved my job. But the moment Christophe Giacometti’s phone, Nikiforov’s assistant, would go off with text from Nikiforov’s driver, the entire atmosphere would shift._

_Flats were switched to heels, hair was let down from up-dos, teeth were checked in any reflective surface possible. Flaws weren’t acceptable in the company of Victor Nikiforov, and every single person in the office was well aware of that. Giacometti would come out from behind his tucked away desk and would wait by the elevator, a steaming coffee cup in one hand, a tablet in the other._

_There is a reason Nikiforov has taken on the title_ ‘Ice King’ _and anyone who has ever been in his company knows exactly why. From his first steps in the office, tension nearly vibrates through the air. He looks over his sea of employees, frozen in time like perfect models, and would go on ignoring us completely as he barked orders at his assistant and went away into his office. Very slightly, the tightness would lift._

_The morning I was fired, all of this was the same. No detail was out of place, nothing was out of the ordinary. I ate some yogurt, and drank my coffee, and sat perfectly still at my desk as Nikiforov swept into his office. The only thing remarkable about that day was the editorial meeting scheduled that afternoon, one in which I was assigned to take notes for._

_It was during that meeting Nikiforov addressed me directly, something that had only happened a handful of times._

_“Nina,” he faced me, tilting his chin up. “What are your thoughts on this?”_

_‘This’ was referring to a potential article idea a coworker of mine had just presented, something about integrating an ad campaign with some features on winter hairstyles._

_I admit, I was not ready to answer a question like this. There was no smooth, well-presented thought expressed, as I fumbled my way through an answer. Looking back, I’m not even sure if I answered the question._

_“Hmm,” He had touched his chin, already looking away. “You’re free to go.”_

_I had nearly wilted in relief, grabbing my things, when he gestured for me to stop. “Leave your notes. Take the rest of your things and report to HR, they will walk you through the rest.”_

_I stopped, dumbfounded. I had simply thought I was dismissed from the meeting, but no. Nikiforov was already turning to have another conversation, and I met my coworker’s eyes in horror. Somehow, I managed to gather my things and leave the office without crying._

_I had worked so hard for that job. Four internships and a glowing letter of recommendation from my former editor, and I had gotten it -- I was a staff writer at_ H  & M _New York. And it was all ruined because of an off-day, a poorly timed question, and Nikiforov’s trademark disregard for others. It was just a question and yet I cannot understand the..._

_CONTINUE TO PAGE 2...._

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* * *

Victor didn’t get much sleep that night.

It was an obvious fact he wouldn’t even need to inform someone on, with his mussed hair and dark circled under eyes. He yawned once more, as he left his room, and slowly made his way through the main halls, looking around as he went.

Yuuri was gone, like yesterday, and Mama and Dad were nowhere to be found. The inn seemed completely deserted, not even a guest or two hanging around the main room. Victor was alone.

Except, apparently, for Yuuri’s older sister.

Victor stumbled as he turned around the corner, nearly running straight into the other person, catching himself only at the last moment.  

“Oh,” Victor swallowed, taking a step or four back. “Mari. You’re here.”

Mari had been lighting a up a cigarette as she walked through the halls apparently, and didn't pause for his sudden company. She tilting up her chin to give him a long look. “Yup,” she seemed unimpressed, absolutely no qualms about obviously accessing him up and down, narrowing her eyes at [ his outfit ](https://cdn.cliqueinc.com/posts/img/uploads/current/images/0/226/711/main.original.640x0c.png). Smoke began wafting from her fingers as she spoke, almost bored. He wondered if that was allowed inside of the building. “I live here.”

“It’s just,” Victor shifted his weight uncomfortably, “I didn’t see you yesterday.”

“I’m busy,” She took the first inhale of smoke, “I was working.”

She stared him down, her eyes narrowed and flickering over him. He bit his lip, dragging his gaze away. “Where’s…”

Mari gave him a hard look, “Yuuri went to dance practice. Everyday from seven to three.” She took a puff of her cigarette -- she was still smoking them then, although much less secretly then she had when she was sixteen -- and gave him an overly critical look. “So. _You’re_ here.”

Victor shifted his weight, uncomfortably. Mari had _always_ been on the rough edge of intimidating but never towards _him._ Always towards whatever smart-mouthed classmate of theirs decided to pick on one of them but never…

He sighed. It made sense, he supposed, with everything else so messed up.

“I’m here,” He only said, his voice slightly weak.

Mari stared at him, her gaze hard and unblinking, for another long moment. She took a few long drags, maybe enjoying in his unease, and leaned against the small table in the hall. Victor bit at his lip, and wondered if he should just walk away. Was she waiting for him to do so? 

She seemed to finally come to a decision then, blowing a last lungful of smoke out before snubbing out her cigarette on a nearby ashtray, turning to him. “Okay,” she decided, “but _you’re_ helping.”

She was already walking past him, fully expecting him to follow, when Victor fully processed her words.

He rushed to scramble after her. “...Helping?”

* * *

Victor took in a desperate breath, bracing his hands on his knees as he doubled over. Despite this, he flipped up his bangs in order to shoot Mari a wide smile. “I -- I had no idea Yuuri had so much stuff!”

Mari’s impassive face had cracked into a small smile a bit ago as she stood at the base of the latter, watching him. At Victor’s moment of pause, she uncrossed her arms and reached into her own hair, pulling out a small clip. Gesturing for Victor to bend down, Mari quickly and swiftly pinned back the worse of it, just like she used to. He shot her a graceful smile.

“So!” Victor took a happy breath, his hands going to his hips. “What’s next?”

“Well,” Mari flipped the latter back up into the ceiling, “Yuuri’s going to be home any minute. Thirsty?”

Victor let out a relieved breath, _“Yes.”_

Mari lead him back to the kitchens, passing over iced water bottles, taking one for herself. Sipping on them, they waited cross-legged in the main room. As Mari predicted, Yuuri was back before Victor even had the chance to drain his bottle.

“What’s…” Yuuri dropped his gym bag to the floor, casting a wide-eyed look around. They both stood to greet Yuuri as he walked in. “What’s all this?”

“I had Victor bring down your stuff from the attic,” Mari explained, gesturing with one hand towards the many boxes piling up around the room.  

Yuuri gave her a strange look, “Oh?”

Something seemed to pass between them, something Victor had no idea how to begin to read. Mari only answered with a small shrug, settling into the nearest chair with no further word. Picking up a magazine, she seemed to check out of the conversation, leaving Yuuri no choice but to turn and face Victor, still sweating just a bit. Victor gave Yuuri a wide heart-shaped grin.

Yuuri huffed out a small breath, an action that could almost be called a laugh. Picking up one of the boxes closest to him, he threw Victor a look over his shoulder. “We can look through these, since Mari had you lug it all down anyways,” Yuuri picked up one of the boxes, “Grab one?”

Victor copied the movement, balancing a box on his hip and another under his arm. “Where are we taking them?”

Yuuri was already leading them away from the main room, from where Mari had Victor stack all the attic boxes. “My room. We can look through them there.” Mari, a straw hanging from her fingers like a cigarette she was most likely craving, followed them, apparently not as bored with them as earlier suggested. Boredom, probably -- the main room only had a few tired looking visitors in a single corner.

Victor followed, casting a look to the row of inn rooms as they were passed down the hallway, each room clean and bare and impersonal. Did Yuuri simply take one up and call it his own?

Yuuri stopped at the end of the hallway, shoving it open with his shoulder. Victor’s own room was within sight, a few doors down. Yuuri lead them in, dropping his boxes to the ground, before turning to look at them both.

Victor’s eyes were wide, taking in the room. It wasn’t anything like the sterile inn room Victor had been given. This -- this was a near perfect duplicate of Yuuri’s childhood bedroom. Not exact - the window was on a different side, and different posters and photos hung taped on the wall, but there were familiar traces here and there that pulled at his chest.

It may have physically been a different room, but everything else was there. “Your room?”

Yuuri rolled his eyes, fond. “Mom insisted that I should always have somewhere to stay in her home.” He smoothed his hand over the faded blue comforter, the same one that had always been on his bed. “I think she just didn’t want me to move all my stuff out.”

“Keeps you coming back, doesn’t it?” Mari flicked him in the temple, chewing on a straw as she completely ignored the flushed color Yuuri turned.

“Go away, Mari,” Victor could nearly hear an echo of the same phrase in Yuuri’s high, childish voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the kitchens?”

She shrugged, but started making her way towards the doorway. “Not like anything’s cooking. But I’ll leave you nerds to it.” She flipped the hair off her neck, turning away, like that was all the goodbye they needed. That was a small comfort, at least. It was like Mari had hardly changed since before. He half-expected her to sneak out later that night, and knock on Yuuri’s window to for the younger boy to let her back in at two in the morning. When they were young and lucky and wide-eyed she’d even stay for a bit, have Yuuri fetch her some leftovers from dinner, and tell them all about her night of girls and boys, smoke and parties.

Mari was probably the coolest person in the world growing up, and it still held true.

Yuuri turned back to him as she left the room, his hands shoved into his back pockets. A thin layer of unsure emotion was beginning to settle over them, as they faced each other. Victor bit his lip.

“The boxes?” He suggested, sweeping hand towards them.

Yuuri looked to the few they had brought in -- there were still a few in the main room but he and the other man had managed a respectable amount. Yuuri considered them, as if thinking over the contents, before finally nodding.

He and Victor fell to the ground cross-legged, crowding around the cardboard boxes. Yuuri, with a pair of scissors swiped from the desk in the corner, tore into the first box, the idea of a smile playing with his lips.

Before he dipped his hands in though, he leaned back to give Victor a look. “Wanna go first?”

Victor, never the one to pass up something like this, nearly literally jumped forward at the chance. Instead, he only grinned widely, leaned forward to peer down into the box, and slipped his hand through the cardboard flaps. Gripping the first thing his hand came in contact with, he pulled his arm out with a flourish and presented it.

“Oh my gosh,” Victor held up the heavy piece with reverence as he realized what it was, his eyes sparkling. “I forgot about this!”

“Is that…” Yuuri’s eyes widened, “Is that Mari’s old crimper?”

A grin was threatening to take over Victor’s entire face. “It is, oh my gosh, your parents never let us use this!”

Yuuri huffed out a small breath, an equally small smile on his lips. “This was like, the coolest thing in sixth grade. _Everyone_ had crimped hair.”

An idea occurred to Victor, perking him up in from his place cross-legged on the ground. “Yuuri,” he gushed, “We should totally do it. We’re adults, they can’t stop us now!”

Victor beamed at Yuuri, shoving the device over. Yuuri, having no other choice, took it.

“Isn’t your hair worth like, thousands of dollars now?” Yuuri gave him a doubtful look. “If I burn off a layer, am I gonna get a call from your lawyer?”

“Don’t be silly, Yuuri.” Victor waved him off, already turning to sit in from of the other man. “My hair has _always_ been worth thousands of dollars.”

Yuuri snorted, finally beginning to move and unravel the long cord. Victor had to resist the urge to squeal as he plugged it in, the cord hardly reaching from their spot on the carpet.

“I think I remember how to do this,” Yuuri muttered, his hands hovering over Victor’s hair like he was afraid to touch. “How long do you hold it in place?”

Victor shrugged -- he and Yuuri had never gotten that far on their own before someone swooped in and confiscated the device. “A minute? Maybe two, just to be safe?” Victor threw a beaming smile over his shoulder, “So we know it looks the best.”

Yuuri nodded like it was sage advice. At this point, Victor could feel the heat of the iron on the back of his neck. “Didn’t you guys do that hair safety issue a few months back? With all the iron heat advice and everything?”

Victor had no idea what he was talking about. “Yeah!” He gave the other man one last smile, “So we totally know it’s safe.”

Yuuri nodded, almost to convince himself, before hesitantly and slowly picking a strip of Victor’s hair to try first. But before Yuuri could close down on the fine colored hair, they both paused at sudden interruption.

“Okay,” They both froze at the new voice from the doorway, “I leave for ten minutes --”

Had the hair iron not been steaming hot, Yuuri probably would have dropped it in guilt the moment Mari walked back in room. Instead, he only gripped at it tighter -- in which Victor’s shoulders should thank of, as he was directly underneath -- and gave her a wide-eyed look. “We weren’t doing anything!”

Mari gave them a look, “Really. Not a single thing.”

Yuuri sighed, “We weren’t doing anything bad.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself which, honestly, Victor understood. It was hard to shake off childhood rules, and on top of their list was the quickly added rule that forbid hair irons without supervision.

“What are you even here? I thought you were working.” Yuuri shot at her. 

Mari gestured to the desk by the door, a wound up phone charger near the edge. “Dad said he threw my cord in here. I was simply retrieving my misplaced item and --” she gave them a bored look, “I find you two trying to burn your hair off and the inn down, like you’re ten again.”

“We’re adults now, though!” It was Victor’s turn to whine, “And it would look _so cool.”_

Mari’s expression was tinted with something more amused. She held out her hand, giving them both a look like they’d been caught sneaking sweets. “Whatever. But you’re going to light your hair on fire, hand it over.”

Yuuri obediently did so, a sheepish look on his face. “We just wanted to see if the look still held up, that’s all.”

She clicked the two sides together as she began separating Victor’s bangs. “Well, experimenting on one of the most famous men in the world is one way to go, I guess.”

Yuuri made a strange choking sound at that, one neither of them paid attention to. Mari turned her attention back onto Victor’s head.

Mari sighed _,_ running her fingers through Victor’s short stands, “Seventeen years later and you’ve _still_ got better hair than me. Not fair, Nikiforov.”

Victor made a face, “It’s too short, though. I miss my long hair.”

“Really?” Yuuri looked surprised, then embarrassed at his own surprise. His cheeks flushed color, “It’s just, it’s kind of your trademark. Your thing.”

Victor sighed, Mari’s hands still deep in his hair. “I can’t do anything with it. I mentioned wanting to dye it and Chris nearly threatened to kill me.”

Even Mari _tsked_ at that, pressing the heat to another strip of his hair. “You’ve had the same hair since you were like, sixteen Nikiforov. It would totally change your brand.”

“It would surprise them, at least.” That idea didn’t seem too bad to him. He wondered why he never wanted to entertain the idea at this age.

She only hummed at that, turning back to her task. Within minutes, probably due to Victor’s lack of flowing hair, she was pulling away.

“There,” Mari presented a small mirror, glittery and plastic, probably found in the same box as the iron. “Done. Yuuri’s turn.”

Victor gasped as he moved out of the way -- moving the mirror in every direction he could to see as much as the crimped style as possible. While his hair was too short for the style to be as iconic as he had seen on numerous celebrities and catalog models, it was still noticeably wavey and crinkled. Yuuri, giving him an amused look, took his spot in front of Mari, sitting perfectly still.

Victor amused himself with the mirror, running this fingers along the bumps and ridges the heat had imprinted into his fine hair, as Yuuri faced the same treatment, his own process taking only a bit longer then Victor’s. When Mari finally pulled away, Victor didn’t hesitate to push the handheld mirror over.

The grin on Yuuri’s face was wide as he examined Mari’s work. “Wow.”

“It hold up,” Victor told him, nodding happily. “We look _great.”_

“Anyway,” Mari began wrapping the cord around the handle, carefully avoiding its contact with the still warm metal. “I better get back before Mom notices I’m gone.” She gave them a playfully stern look, cocking a hip out. “No more attempted arson, got it?” A wicked grin came on her face, "At least not without _me."_

Their chorsed agreement was familiar and natural -- their shared grin afterwards even more so. She nodded at them, meeting Yuuri’s gaze for a moment longer, before leaving and taking the hair iron with her. To prevent any more of their attempts, he assumed.

Yuuri began unloading the rest of the boxes, cutting open the next one with his scissors. Almost immediately, with his hands buried deep beneath the cardboard, he grinned. When he pulled his arms back up, a palm sized device was hanging from his hand.

“Oh, I loved this thing.” Yuuri set to work untangling the thin wires, “I used to steal Mari’s cards and she would get so mad.”

“Ah,” Victor grinned, holding up the small device to get a better look at it. The Hit Clip, red and obscenely scratched from age, hung from a pair of cheap headphones mid-air as Yuuri pulled and twisted at the knot. From the plastic cuff, an array of chip sounds hung and clicked together. Victor pulled at the nearest one, smiling down at it. “Destiny’s Child,” he read off, “God, I remember this one! I swear we played _it_ until the plastic wore out.”

Yuuri hummed in agreement, looking through the chips. “Oh, the Backstreet Boys.” Yurri let out a small sigh, “What was their song that we were completely obsessed with?”

Victor didn’t even have to think, _“I Want It That Way,_ ” He threw a grin over to him, and loudly -- and very much off-key -- blurted out the much loved refrain of, “ _Ain't nothin' but a heartache /_

_Tell me why~”_

“Oh, god.” Yuuri’s hands came over his face, “That song’s going to be stuck in my head for like, the rest of my life.”

“Good,” Victor saw absolutely no problem with that. It was a great song. Despite the hit song briefly catching his attention, he was already onto the next thing. “What else have you got in here?” Victor was already peeking over the side, balanced on his knees, before a gasp ripped through him. A gleeful expression  took over his entire face as he pulled out the heavy, thick volumes. “Yuuri, are these our _yearbooks?”_

Yuuri was already grimacing as Victor excitedly laid them all out, tracing over the glossy covers as he did so. Only the first few were recognizable in their bright color and pattern. The later ones -- the high school ones -- gave him no clue.

He jumped into the familiar first, if only for the comfort factor of it all.

“Oh my god,” Victor groaned out, covering the pages of the first cracked open book. “You kept these? I look, _ugh_ , so…”

Yuuri leaned in, a small fond smile on his face. “Oh, seventh grade.” He laughed softly, “That was a fun year.”

Victor shot him a mock glare, “Yuuri, I had acne, baby fat, and braces. Seventh grade was _not_ fun.”

Yuuri dipped his head, tracing his fingernail along the glossy edge of the page. “I don’t know. I had fun.” Printed on the page was their class photo that year, Yuuri and Victor pressed together in the corner to make double kissy faces. Victor gave it a fond smile, touching the paper softly. He remember that day well - it was taken only a few months before Victor’s thirteenth birthday.

Yuuri let out a giggle, pointing out another photo, younger this time. “We’re wearing our Spice Girls shirts in this one.”

Victor perked up, “The World Tour ones?” He leaned forward excitedly, catching sight of the bright print on the matching black shirts, “Oh, I miss those things. They were so _soft.”_

“We used to wear them everywhere,” Yuuri remembered with a small smile, tilting his head as he looked down at the book. “God, sewing that thing back up was basically Dad’s second hobby.”  

“With good reason,” Victor agreed, looking back down to the photo. He had no idea where his was. Maybe he threw it away.

The forced himself away from the thought, instead glancing around to the rest of the contents Yuuri had dumped out.

He gave the rest of the books a curious look, “What years are those?”

“Those are high school ones,” Yuuri didn’t look nearly as interested in those, instead moving to flip onto the next page of his own.

“Oh,” Victor blinked, already reaching for them. He didn’t know anything about his high school years except for the fact that apparently while he and Yuuri went to school together, they weren’t very close. He leaned the book back on his knees, and flipped open.

The first few sections weren’t that interesting, school headshot photos of mostly unfamiliar faces. It wasn’t until be flipped ahead to the events section, that he was really surprised. A blown up photo of himself, younger and older at the same time, stared back at him.

“I was in theater?” He muttered to himself, tracing along a photo of him, his long silver hair cut short, posing in an uncomfortable looking costume.

Yuuri mist have heard him, craning his neck a bit to see over Victor’s hunched form. “Oh. Yeah. Freshman year was…” he thought for a moment, “ _Hamlet_ , I think? You were one of the best friends. It was good.”

Victor shot him a surprised look, “You came and saw me?”

Yuuri’s lips smoothed out into a line, “Yeah. We talked briefly afterwards, remember? I had to take your photos for the yearbook.”

That had Victor even more surprised, glancing down to the book in his lap. “You took these? I didn’t know you were into taking photos!”

Yuuri gave him a small shrug, still mostly absorbed in one of their junior high books. “I was covering for a friend of mine in the photography club. I didn’t do it a lot.”

“Oh, okay.” Victor felt a bit relieved at that -- Yuuri in his time would have mentioned that, at least. It was a small comfort to know that he at thirteen wasn’t a horrible friend yet. He reached for another high school book, not bothering to check the year, and flipped it open to a random page.

After scanning the paper for a few second, he gasped, a hand coming over his mouth. “I was _Prom King?”_

Yuuri gave him a strange look, “Yeah, Victor. Senior year. You don’t remember?”

Victor blinked down at the photo, a grinning and cocky well-dressed copy of himself staring back. “It...slipped my mind.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I was _popular.”_

“Yup,” Yuuri popped the end of the word, “that you were.” 

He started flipping through the next few pages, faces mostly unfamiliar but one or two popping out as the grown counterparts of middle school peers, when he paused at another familiar face.

His mouth fell open, “Yuuri! You were in dance club?”

A rouge color fell over Yuuri’s cheeks, even before he turned to look down at the open pages in Victor’s lap.

A teenage Yuuri, dressed in a form-fitting all black ensemble, leaned against the support of another classmate as they posed together. Effortlessly, teenage Yuuri held up his leg in a perfect split, grinning.

A blush filled Victor’s cheeks, even as he tore his gaze away. For some odd reason, he suddenly felt like he was intruding on something private.

“My friend talked me into it,” Yuuri hastily explained, waving his hand around like he was trying to clear the air of the conversation. “It was a one time thing, just for some pep rally. It was stupid.”

Victor rubbed his thumb against the shine of the page, “It looks like you had fun.”

Yuuri shrugged, going quiet again. Victor, taking the hint, flipped the book shut -- he could always look through it again later. Maybe if he found a few more of their younger years --

Victor turned and started pulling off random books from Yuuri’s bookshelf. “Do you have any more --”

“Wait!”

Victor paused, but the look on Yuuri’s face told him it was already too late. He looked down slowly, and Victor’s own face stared back at him.

“Oh,” Victor pulled the issue out completely, “that’s me.”

A stack of thick magazines, all in prime condition with unbroken spines, were lined up there, each with his face staring back. Apparently, he had done a lot. Yuuri, behind him, was quiet as he opened it up at random, flipping until he found the pages on himself.

“I just…” Yuuri trailed off before clearing his throat. “I liked to keep up with you.”

He read through the interview, wrinkling his nose at one point. “I said I liked _kale?”_ He gagged, “I hate kale. It’s, like, bitter vomit.”

“I know,” Yuuri’s voice was small. “I wondered why you said that.”

The other boy went quiet at that, his gaze downcast, his mouth smoothed out into a flat line. Victor bit his lip, uncomfortable with the sudden silence. He set down the magazine, his hands twisting in front of him. A thought popped into his head.

“Yuuri,” He waited until the other boy looked over before squishing his cheeks together, sticking his tongue out. “I’m a fish!”

There was a beat of silence as Yuuri stared at the other boy, his gaze held with disbelief, he fell back, and erupted into a fit of giggles.

Victor made the face for a few more moments before dropping his hands and grinning in satisfaction. “That _always_ makes you laugh.”

“You’re....” Yuuri gave him an odd look, still smiling. “I wasn’t expecting that, that’s it.”

“Nope,” Victor disagreed happily, “it’s the power of the fish face.”

Yuuri shook his head, still unbelieving. “I just...really wasn’t expecting that.”

Victor gave him a bright smile, turning back to shuffle through the cardboard box before him.

A brown shoebox, a faded Sketchers logo starting back at him, that he had to lift with both hands because the lid was nearly sliding off. Victor settled down, the box in his lap, and set the top aside.

Notebook paper folds were nearly filled to the brim of the shoebox, and Victor’s own handwriting peered back at him.

“Oh, those.” This strangely seemed to embarrass Yuuri, a soft color filling his cheeks. “I forgot I kept those.”

Victor picked one at random, his loopy handwriting slipping in and out of the set lines to its own path. Near the bottom of the fold, Victor had drawn some small doodle of Makkachin. He didn’t remember drawing this, despite the date -- printed neatly at the top -- being so close to his thirteenth birthday.

He unfolded it, quiet, and read over the bored exchange between him and Yuuri. A common occurrence, as they traded notes through the worst of their stilled classes, but Victor had no idea Yuuri had saved them all. Victor had kept a few of their best ones pressed between magazine covers, but not all of them. There were, so he thought, way too many to do so.

But not too much for Yuuri, it seemed, with the cardboard box that refused to close with all its mass.

Yuuri had gone coy, his eyes flickering. He seemed shyer, now.

Victor had no words for this, for the growing warmth in his chest, the small cloud of comfort enguluging him thoroughly. Instead, he only gave the other man a small smile, and held the folded paper to his chest.

* * *

“Oh god,” Yuuri winced as he pulled out the bundle of shiny plastic fabric. “My old fanny pack. Wow. Why in the world did I keep this.”

Victor pulled it out of the other man’s hands, to his chest. “Yuuri,” his voice was scandalized, “Don’t you dare disgrace the fanny pack! We had matching ones!”

He gave Victor a teasing look, “Victor. You’re literally the face of fashion. You know better.”

Victor stuck his nose in the air, crossing his arms. “I’ll have you know that I think fanny packs are in perfect fashion.”

Yuuri gave a fond look, his eyes rolling, before wrinkling his nose. “It’s so _ugly.”_ He shook the bag, something weighing it down from the inside, before flipping it over to unzip it across the middle. Something about as long as his hand, gray, was cradled inside. Victor’s heart skipped a beat.

Yuuri pulled out the small device, a look of awe coming over his face. “I _completely forgot_ I owned this.”

Victor peeked over his shoulder, smiling. “Your Gameboy color!” Victor beamed, “You still have it!”

Yuuri pulled the game chip out, squinting at the small print. “Pokemon Red, a classic. God, what was that one cheat code -- the one we read in that magazine that one time -”

“The tree cheat,” Victor finished for him, grinning widely. “You cut down a tree, stand in its place, and save the game. When you turn it back on, you’re sitting on the tree.”

Yuuri shook his head, a laugh huffing out. “It was so stupid but we’d do it _constantly._ Like, _boom_ sitting in a tree, and we’d spent like, half an hour laughing hysterically.” There was a soft, warm smile on his face. “Like, that’s peak childhood right there.”

“Mari used to get so mad,” Victor was already laughing, thinking of how she used to yell at them for being too loud. “She’d come in your room in the middle of the night and demand to know what was so funny.”

They shared a laugh then, the device flipping back and forth between Yuuri’s hands. They went quiet.

“Do you want to --”

Yuuri was already clicking the device on, _“God, yes.”_

* * *

For not the first time in his life, when he woke up, it was in a twisted pretzel of a position on Yuuri Katsuki’s floor. Although, for the first time that he could remember, his body ached like he had betrayed it.

“Oh my god,” Victor groaned out, pressing weight onto his own lower back, “It’s like I slept on _rocks.”_

Yuuri was giving him a soft, amused look from his perch on the bed. Victor must have fallen asleep last night as they continued to go through the boxes and Yuuri, just like from when they were kids, was apparently content with letting Victor sleep where he fell.

“You’re getting older,” he teased, “your back needs support. You can’t just sleep on the floor anymore and expect to feel great in the morning.”

Despite his pain, Victor couldn’t let an opportunity for theaterics go. Apparently, he was quite experienced in it here.

“Yuuri,” he gasped, his hand coming to his puffed out chest, his hair falling dramatically over one eyes. “Are you calling me _old?”_

Yuuri made a face like he was thinking about it. “Well you _are_ older than me,” he shrugged, making a _what-can-you-do face._ “It was bound to happen sometime.”

“I’m so offended, Yuuri.” There was a mock outrage painted on his face, his hand coming to rest dramatically over his forehead. “I can’t believe you’ve wounded me like this.”

Yuuri snorted, and that simple action alone left Victor feeling a bit giddy. Yuuri was loosening up more and more around him with each day -- Victor hardly could have imaged the man doing so when Victor pounded on his apartment door.

Yuuri flipped over in his bed, standing and playfully kicking at Victor’s figure on the ground. “Go relax in the spa area, I’ve used the hot tub when sore muscles after practice.” Yuuri’s teasing look was back, his voice matching. “Should be perfect for your sleep strained body.”

He tilted his face up, his nose in the air. “Maybe I _will._ ” That did actually sound really nice, even if Yuuri was suggested it as a joke.

Yuuri pretended not to notice how seriously Victor was considering it. “I’m gonna head to the studio for a few hours,” He began throwing random clothes into his gym bag, a slight wince coming over Victor’s features. “I’ll be back later.”

Victor waved off the other boy, still settled across his floor. His back _was_ hurting, and his muscles were stiff and sore like he’d just spent a day on the ice.

He thought over Yuuri’s joking suggestion. Eh, why not.

He wrapped himself in the inn robe, feeling at rest. He wondered if he had many moments like this before -- if he ever took time for himself and just breathed. It didn’t seem he did, from how Christophe had painted him. It was well deserved, he decided. A few hours of pampering would do him good.

* * *

His skin was still warmed from the steam, his nails a shiny buff, his hair pinned back with one of Mari’s borrowed clips. There was a calmness bone deep in him, even as he rubbed in the last of his lotion face mask. The few hours Yuuri had promised to be gone had passed nicely, leaving Victor lotioned and clean and warm.

But also thirsty -- the cucumber water in the spa area was readily available but out of all the things in this future time, vegetables floating in his water wasn’t something he had grown readily used to. He refused to grow used to it perfectly on principle. He had _morals._

Sweeping into the main room, still rubbing a bit of leftover lotion into his arms, he didn’t pause mid-step until it was too late. Already through the doorway, Victor stumbled over his own feet, and stared with wide eyes.

Yura was here, in front of him, in one of the plush booths lined along the way. He was a mess of limbs and bright tiger print, scowling at his phone, paying no one in the room any sort of attention whats so ever. Victor’s breath caught in his chest.

This motion was, apparently, just the slightest too loud. Yura looked up at him, his gaze almost immediately snapping to a glare, and crossed the room in only a few seconds. Victor froze.

“What are you _doing_ here, Nikiforov?” Yura growled at him, a dark look passing over his face. “Are you following me?”

Victor was already shaking his head, “No, I --” he gestured down to the standard green robe, “I’m staying here. I...went looking for Yuuri.”

Yura threw him an angry look, his gaze flickering down and over the inn robe tied tightly at the waist. “What, you’re freeloading off the Katsuki’s now?” He screwed up his face, his hands clenched at his sides. “ _Pathetic,_ Nikiforov. Not that I would expect much less from you, if that’s possible.”

Victor swallowed, keeping his voice steady. He hadn’t been expecting to see him here, looking so angry, looking so much older. It was too much to process. “Yuri, I --”

“I don’t even want to hear what you’ve got to say,” He spat out, “I don’t know what this little _act_ is about but don’t think for a single moment I buy even a _second_ of it.”

Victor looked to the ground, and kept his hands steady at his sides. He said nothing.

But as it turns out, he didn’t have to

“Yura,” Yuuri had a hard frown on his face as he swept into the room -- or maybe he was already in here, how much had he heard -- but his voice was soft as he spoke to the younger man. “Mama is in the kitchen with your lunch. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The two men shared a look, mostly glare from Yura’s side, before the younger boy stomped off towards the kitchen, still scowling in his wake. Yuuri gave Victor an unsure look.

Victor swallowed, his gaze following his little brother out the room. Even then, his eyes lingered on the doorway he had disappeared into. “Tomorrow?” He questioned softly, his voice a rasp.

Yuuri’s gaze flickered away, settling on the wall. “He wants to change his exhibition skate, asked for help with his choreography. He’ll be coming to the studio tomorrow.” Yuuri look a small breath, “I forgot he would be here. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Victor said, “It’s...not your fault. Really.”

There was a long moment of silence. Victor shifted his weight and let his fringe fall over his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was so small. “He’s so _angry.”_

“Well,” Yuuri began, a bit turned away to the doorway Yura had disappeared into. “That’s just Yura.”

Was it?

“Yeah,” Victor had no other choice but to agree, his gaze finally returning to the other man, as he was retreating.

That was just Yura, he supposed, just like he was just Victor.

* * *

After Yura had evidently left, and Victor was thankfully more composed, Yuuri was returning to his room, finally done for the day.

Yuuri began unloading his gym bag, wrinkling his nose and throwing his dirty clothes towards the laundry basket, as Victor watched on from the ground, his legs crossed underneath him.

“So what do you wanna do tonight? I think we’ve finally looked through all of the boxes.” This, at least, was evident from the mess still thrown around Yuuri’s room. Neither of them were in much hurry to clean it all up.  

Yuuri hummed in thought, considering the question. After a moment, he gave Victor a wondering look. “We could watch a movie, maybe?” Yuuri’s voice was hesitantly suggestive, peeking up at the other boy through his bangs and biting his lip.

Victor lit up at his words, “We can go to Blockbuster and get some movies!” Victor gushed, “Popcorn and orange soda, like we used to!”

Yuuri gave him an odd look, his lips twitching slightly. “I mean...there’s a Redbox at the pharmacy. And I have Netflix?”

Victor had no idea what either of those things were. “Sure!”

* * *

“--okay, but _10 Things I Hate About You_ is clearly the superior rom-com in comparison to _She’s All That._ Do you even remember the scene with the poem?”

“Iconic,” Yuuri was already agreeing, a twizzler sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “God, I remember how _hard_ you cried at that.”

A grin stretched across Victor’s face, his hand coming up to hit the other man playfully. “It was sad! And so genuine with emotion, god. It’d _still_ make me sob.”

“Really?” Yuuri seemed a bit fascinated with this one fact, “You, crying at rom-coms?”

Victor shoved their shoulders together, “Why is that so surprising? Gosh, you know how much I sobbed every time the couple finally gets together.”

“No, I just --” Yuuri gave him a small shrug, a matching smile on his face. “You’re usually just so -- “

Victor waited, “So?”

Yuuri let out a breath, “I don’t know like --” he bit his lip, “flawless. In every interview and public appearance I’ve seen you just - you’re perfect. Untouchable.”

There was a beat of silence. A color filled in Yuuri’s cheeks. He already looked to be regretting his words. Victor had to swallow against his suddenly tight and dry throat.

Victor bit his lip, looking away. “I’m not perfect, Yuuri.”

It was Yuuri’s turn to shove their shoulders together although Yuuri, unlike Victor, didn’t move back to his previous position. He stayed there, the line of his body overlapping Victor’s, and gave him a small, but genuine, smile. There was a tinkle there in his brown eyes, and Victor wondered if it had always been there.

“I know that, Victor.” Yuuri’s voice was teasing, “I know.”

Victor shoved his shoulder against Yuuri’s, breaking the moment. “You should know better. Remember how many times I ate ice as a kid?”

Yuuri tipped his head back, his laugh climbing up his chest. “Oh god, _yes_. That time you knocked out your front tooth?”

Victor joined in on his laughter, his hand coming up to trace said tooth. It had been a baby tooth, thankfully, but that didn’t stop Yakov’s near heart attack when Victor hit the sideboards in a splash of blood.

Victor dropped his hand, thinking back to their old rink. He wondered if it was even still open -- it was rundown in the nineties.

“I miss it,” Victor said, abruptly realizing how incredibly true the words were.

There was a moment of silence, the words hanging between them. After a few long moments, Yuuri was the first to break it.

“We should go,” Yuuri suddenly said, sitting up. “Ice skating. We should go.”

Victor perked up after a moment, “Really? Is there somewhere nearby?”

Yuuri was already nodding, “There’s a place downtown I sometimes go. We can go tomorrow, maybe?” His voice was hesitant for a quick moment, “We don’t have to, I just thought --”

“I would love to go!” Victor interrupted the other man before he could unconvince himself of the idea.

The corners of Yuuri’s lips perked up. “You can come by the studio tomorrow right before my practice ends? We can leave from there.”

Victor smiled, genuine and soft and warm. “That sounds _perfect.”_

Yuuri dipped his head, and didn’t even try to hide how much he agreed with the statement.

* * *

The next day, with their plan in place, Victor was eagerly awaiting for the time to pass so he could make his way over to the studio. Yuuri usually finished around halfway through the day, never before a real problem as Victor usually kept himself busy by sleeping late and helping around the inn. But now, jittery with energy and excitement, there was no way he was sleeping in.

At one point, Mari had gotten sick of all his extra energy and began drafting up a list of chores. She was probably trying to annoy him with this -- Britney knew how good she was at that when they were younger -- but he honestly couldn’t fight the results that came with it. This, at least, made the morning pass faster until it was time for him to leave.

Yuuri had left the address on another note outside his bedroom, and Siri was only too happy to direct him along.

Soon, he was faced with a large and elegant looking building, all smooth marble and detailed design, that matched the address scrawled across the inn paper. He pocketed the slip and, after a quick _thank-you!_ to Siri, his phone followed. According to what Yuuri had told him, his practice would be over soon.

He decided to simply wait inside the building -- maybe he could find the room Yuuri was practicing in and wait for him outside -- but before he could even make it farther than a few steps inside, he was jerking back in his stride, stopping completely. He inhaled a small breath.

“Yura,” he stepped back once more on instinct with the word, “I -- I didn’t know you would be here.”

The other boy -- _man_ , he corrected himself, his little brother was a man -- glared at him. “I practice here sometimes with Katsuki. Not that you would know.” He looked like he was resisting the urge to spit at Victor’s feet, probably purely only for the glossed hardwood. There was a beat of silence, like Yura was waiting for him to shoot back with a response, but Victor had nothing. He was nothing, in the face of the other man’s rage.

Yura puffed out a breath, almost frustrated, before gripping at his gym bag strap and shoving past Victor, too much force and emotion behind the action. Victor turned as he was pushed, his eyes following him down the hallway.

He watched his baby brother’s retreating figure, his shoulders hiked up to his ears, his hood up and pulled tight. Victor watched him go, all down the hall and through the doors, until he was gone.

Victor let go of the breath in his chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

_It couldn’t._

“Yura!” He didn’t shout until he reached the parking lot at least, but yelled raw as he burst through the silver double doors. The space was nearly vacated, most of the cars parked in the back closer to the second entrance, but Yura was there, heading towards a vehicle. He stopped at Victor’s voice, the line of his body impossibly getting harder, before spinning in place and marching over.

Victor, a bit winded, had no defense against the other man’s words as he got closer, already shouting out words.

“What? What do you even want?” There was something of a raw emotion in his voice, something that Victor had never heard there. “Why are you here now? What do you _want?”_

Yura’s eyes were angry and desperate, his cheeks a flame of a color, as he shouted out to Victor, despite the minimal space between them now.

“What do you want from me? From Yakov and the Katsuki’s and --” His mouth smoothed out into a wobbly line, “And what the fuck do you want from _Yuuri?”_

Victor -- Victor had no idea what to say. He only stared at the other man -- his little brother was a _man_ \-- and tried to form something to say.

Yura wasn’t done. His hand coming up to point at Victor accusingly. “You’ve fucked with Yakov and I numerous times over the years but _Yuuri?_ What the hell do you want from him?” A bitter grin took over his face. “You know how _long_ it took him to get over your sorry ass and now you’re, what, reliving it for kicks? _Fuck you.”_

Yura was heaving for breath by the end of it, even as he spat out more and more confusing statements at Victor to process. How had Victor messed with Yakov and Yura? His own family -- why in the world would he do that? And Yuuri, his best friend in the whole world, what does he mean ‘get over’? What did any of this mean?

“Well?” Yura demanded, his hands clenched fists at his side. “Say something, idiot. Don’t just stand there with your mouth open.”

Victor’s jaw snapped close, as he stared in the face of his little brother, of baby Yura. He suddenly pushed all those conflicting and puzzling statements out of his mind, all his questions and confusions and everything in between, and he settled on the one singular truth he knew about himself in this world.

“Yura --” Victor cut himself off before the younger man’s face could screw up anymore. “ _Yuri,_ I mean, I -- I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry._ For everything.”

Yura’s shoulders were still hunched up high, a scowl still on his face. “Sorry for what, being a shitty person?”

Victor went quiet for a long moment. “Yeah.”

That didn’t seem to help at all, only causing for Yura to grip tighter at the bag slung across his torso. “Yeah, well, shit-load that means. Fuck off, Victor.”

Victor didn’t try to follow as the other boy stomped off back where he came from, towards his vehicle. Briefly, he wondered if he was supposed to. Had Yura been three feet shorter, the answer most definitely would have been yes. But now, as a full grown adult, Victor had no idea what the script was here. What he was suppose to do, how he was suppose to handle this.

So he didn’t, and ignored the pang in his chest as Yura flipped him off as he drove away. It hurt all the same, yes, but there was a practice to this sort of thing, he was learning.

“Hey,” Yuuri gave him a considering look after Victor came into the studio, softening after a moment. “Did you...did you run into Yura?”

Victor gave him a non-committing shrug, his eyes instead shifting over the practice area.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri bit his lip, “I thought he’d be gone by the time you got here but he insisted on working on some of his transitions.”

“It’s fine,” It really wasn’t, but Victor wasn’t planning on thinking about it very much at the moment. He gave Yuuri a bright, forced smile, “Ready to go?”

Yuuri gave him a long look before finally nodding slowly. “Let me just go get my bag,” He disappeared into the side room, leaving him alone in the empty studio. Yuuri must still like practicing on his own, then,

Victor let out a breath, leaning against the wall and tipping his head back. Yuuri took a few minutes, much longer then it should have taken to grab a few things, but the other man probably suspected Victor needed the breather. He was stupidly grateful for it.

When Yuuri returned, Victor felt like he could actually manage a grin or two.

“Already ready,” Yuuri told him before he could ask, digging around in his gym bag. After a moment, he made a noise of victory, and held out a small bundle of fabric.

Victor gave him a questioning look, taking it. It was [ a fleece hat ](http://www.themouseworks.com/images/HAT-PHOTOS/Dog%20Hat/dog-green-with-grey-ears.jpg), he discovered.

“It’s to cover your hair,” Yuuri added, zipping up his bag and looking pleased. “So no one will recognize you.”  

Victor folded out the fabric and almost instantly let out a high squeal, pulling out the tips of the hat. “It has _ears!”_ He pulled it on, stuffing all the locks of silver in as best as he could. Still, he cooed at the knitted pattern of the ears, and the stitched in eyes. “It looks like a dog!”

Yuuri was smiling, “Isn’t the best? I found it as a festival last year.” He flicked the plastic nose, “It’s cute.”

“Totally,” Victor agreed, tucking on one of the ears. Yuuri seemed to find this amusing, his eyes sparkling.

Yuuri...had really pretty eyes. How had he never noticed that before?

Yuuri was staring to give him an odd look, with all his staring, so Victor grabbed onto Yuuri’s arm, hanging off it, grinning wide. “Let’s go!”

* * *

“Here you go,” Yuuri passed over the skates, hanging together from a huge knot, and barely tried to suppress his grin.

Victor wrinkled his nose at the rented skates but didn’t protest much as he shoved his feet through them, shooting Yuuri’s worn, expensive pair a longing look. Yuuri, catching it, shot him a smug look.

“Do you need help getting on the ice?” There was teasing in his voice, although the offer was real. Victor, sticking his nose in the air, refused.

Which, was probably a mistake.

Victor let out a burst of giggles as he took his first step on the ice, his feet already trying to slide in different directions. “Oh, I’m so bad!”

Yuuri gave him a small smile. He seemed perfectly at ease on the ice -- he must have been keeping up with it. “How long has it been?”

Victor didn’t even know the answer to that. “A long time,” he settled for. “Too long.”

“It’s a bit obvious,” Yuuri said, laughter in his voice. Victor shot him a mock offended look, his hand coming up over his chest, before breaking character with a series of laughter.  

“Do you come here a lot?” Victor finally asked, leaning against the boards for a break. His shins were aching in a way that he hadn’t felt since he first started skating. Yuuri, however, seemed perfectly comfortable even after an hour of skating.

Yuuri shrugged at that, “When I need to think, usually. Being on the ice helps clear my head.”

“It always has,” Victor teased, “that’s why I still find it unbelievable you quit. Mari and I used to have to plan how to drag you off the ice.”

From the way Yuuri face shuttered close at that, that must have been the wrong thing to say. His previously stretched out grin, loose and careful, went flat, and he turned to face the boards.

There was a beat of silence. An echo of anxiety burrowed its way into Victor’s stomach, clenching at his heart. “Yuuri?” He questioned, unsure.

“I quit because it wasn’t fun anymore,” Yuuri told him, still faced away. “And because you weren’t here anymore, Victor.”

Victor’s voice was meek. “You quit...because of me?”

Yuuri let out a snort, “Mostly because of the lack of you. This was kind of our thing, remember?” He shrugged, looking away. “I don’t know. It honestly just wasn’t as fun anymore. You stopped because all the bruises and blisters were making your feet ugly. And I…I don’t know. It wasn’t the same.”

Victor’s voice was soft, “Is that why you never competed after I stopped? Why you stayed with dancing?”

Yuuri shook his head, “I wasn’t nearly good enough to compete —“

Victor frowned, “That’s crap and you know it. You were as good as me, and I was _great_.”

“Until you stopped,” Yuuri looked down at their skates, “That was forever ago, Victor. It’s fine.”

 _It wasn’t forever ago to me._ Victor wanted to scream, his hands clenched together. He cleared his throat. “But Yura? He continued?”

Yuuri cracked a small smile at that. “He was too good to stop. Haven’t you seen him?”

Victor had no idea if he had -- in his time he was up at dawn for every single one of Yura’s beginner class showcases, but that didn’t seem to be nearly the same case here. Why, and when, had be stopped going?

Yura had loved to see him there. He was always surprised, despite Victor being the one to elaborate braid his hair and help him into his costume.

“Not in awhile,” Victor finally settled on. He wondered if maybe there were some videos online, where he could catch up on it all. He shifted in his skates.

“Hey,” Victor shot the other man a smile, “wanna try our trick?”

Yuuri considered that, a teasing look on his face. “I don’t know. Think you can still do it?”

Probably not, if he was being honest.

“Of course I can,” He took on look of mock offense. “How dare you imply that?”

Yuuri cocked an eyebrow, “Alright,” he pushed himself off the board, giving Victor a challenging look. He held out his hand, pulling Victor with him, politely ignoring how Victor first wobbled.

“You’re unsteady,” Yuuri pointed out, apparently not going along with ignoring him as he first hoped. “I really don’t think you’ll be able to skate backwards, much less a spiral.”

Victor let out a breath. Yuuri, as usual, was probably right.

“Can you still do it?” Yuuri gave him a surprised look, “Can you do it for me?”

Yuuri nodded his head, “I think so,” he shrugged, “I usually just do figures, many some jumps if I have a lot on my mind.

Victor gasped, waving his hands around. “Show me! You _have_ to show me!”

Yuuri threw him an amused look, already at ease on the ice. Glancing around -- probably making sure there was no one in the immediate vicinity -- before he began. A few basic tricks at first, things they would have practiced together under Yakov’s careful eye, until he slowly started to glide into more advanced figures. Yuuri went in for a jump -- a simple one, but graceful nonetheless -- and Victor gasped along with the motion. There was a few more minutes of this, Yuuri showing off for Victor, and by the time he was done, Victor’s mouth was hanging open, dumbfounded.

Yuuri was breathing a bit hard, a sweat glossing over his skin, as he made his way back over to Victor, who didn’t even attempt to hide his awe.

“Yuuri,” Victor had both hands clamped over his chest, “that was _amazing.”_

“It wasn’t much,” He instantly followed Victor’s words with, “I’m a bit rusty.”

“That’s _rusty?”_ Honestly, that was even more impressive. He told Yuuri so, not even surprised when he turned a dark color. Yuuri had always been as easy blush, much to the amusement of Mari and Victor.

Yuuri waved away his words, trying to clear up the blush in his own cheeks, and leaned his forearms onto the boards. Victor was in a similar position, as he had been most of his time on the ice.

Victor shifted his weight, making a face at the ache in his legs. Ugh, that was so _annoying._ Skating hadn’t really hurt for him in _forever._  

Yuuri, catching it, frowned over at him. “Are you okay?”

He shrugged, gesturing down to his skates. “Just -- uncomfortable. I forgot how much they could hurt if you’re not used to them.”

“Let’s go, then.” Yuuri was already leading them away, “We can -- we can always come back.”

He seemed to catch himself as he said the last of it, as if embarrassed to be suggesting future plans.  

Victor smiled brightly, “Definitely!” Yuuri’s shoulders relaxed as he helped Victor step off the ice, and over to a nearby bench. Almost immediately, as he fell onto the aged wood, he felt relief.

Yuuri gave him a sympathetic look as Victor pulled his feet out, a few blisters already visible from over his socks. Victor winced, rubbing at his feet.

Yuuri went quiet, with his skates at his sides, his bag at his feet. Victor glanced over, catching his eye. “Everything okay?”

“I…” Yuuri trailed off, oddly hesitant. He cleared his throat. “Do you think you’re going to still be here on Saturday?”

Victor had planned for a week -- Christopher had cleared his schedule and everything. It was only Thursday.

“Yes,” Victor said the word slowly, cocking his head. “Do you...do you want me to go by then?”

Yuuri was already frantically shaking his head, his hands fanned out in panic before Victor could even finish. “No, no! I just meant, I mean, I have this thing on Saturday and, I don’t know it might be stupid or whatever --”

“Yuuri,” Victor’s voice was patient, a small smile in place. “You don’t have to hang around here if you have something planned. I can hang out with Mari.”

Yuuri bit his lip. After a second, he breathed out, “No, it’s not that. It’s just  - I just -” He seemed to steady himself. “I have a recital. On Saturday. I mean, the theatre I dance for.”

Victor blinked, “Oh.” After a second, he brightened. “Do you want _me_ to come?”

“You totally don’t have to,” he immediately clarified, “I just thought -- you’re going to be here anyways, and my parents usually come and --”

Victor was grinning, bright and joyful. “Yuuri, I would _love_ to come.”

There was a hesitant smile on Yuuri’s face, “Yeah?”

Victor reached over to grip the other boy’s hand, not really noticing how wide Yuuri’s eyes went at that, “Yeah.”

Yuuri smiled, brilliance personified.  

He thought of Yakov, and Yura, and their hurt faces and words. How Christophe sometimes went quiet after a joke, like he was waiting for something. How Raoul still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

He had messed up so much here.

Maybe Yuuri -- with his forever warmth and secret grins -- maybe this could be his exception.

* * *

Victor set down the box with a huff, smoothing his messy bangs back. “So. Why are we having a party?”

“It’s not really a party,” Yuuri explained, waving his hands in a gesture. Ever since their time at the rink yesterday, he was more relaxed than Victor could remember. “Mari’s just having some friends over, which made Mama invite some friends over, and then Dad was already watching some game with his friends and we just ended up having a lot of people over.”

“Like a party,” Victor clarified, mostly just to get that fond eye roll from Yuuri. It worked.

“Whatever, sure, it’s a party.” Yuuri allowed him, opening the box to start pulling out the extra dishware. “But there’s no reason behind it or anything.”

Victor hummed, his hands careful as they seperated stacked up cups and plates. Mari hadn’t specified how many of her friends were coming, but with all the food Mama and Dad had already cooked up, the extra dishes would be needed. They laid it out on the extra table Mari had folded out earlier that afternoon and when they finally took their seat, they were a tad worn out.

Getting old was _exhausting._

They were lounging around the booth for a long while, talking a bit with each other, mostly playing on their phones, as the guests began to arrive around them. Yuuri had to greet a few of them, friends of his parents apparently, but he returned after a few moments.

Yuuri paused as he slid back into the booth, considering the air. He gave Victor a strange look. “...What’s that sound?”

Victor stuck out his tongue, letting the other boy get a good look.

“Pop-rocks,” Yuuri grinned, “What flavor?”

Victor was already pouring the other man a handful. “Blue raspberry, duh.”

“This is totally gonna stain our teeth,” Yuuri warned him, all while tossing back the handful.

“Who cares,” Victor’s voice was full of bubblegum and sugar, “it’s a _party.”_

Just then, a heavy bottle slammed on the table before them, a hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Following the arm up, Victor looked up to Mari, who was smirking.

“It’s a not a real party yet,” She corrected him, twisting the cork out of the bottle in a smooth, practiced motion. She poured out two small glasses, pushed them towards the two men, before turning away to, he assumed, do the same to another unsuspecting patron.

“You should try it,” Yuuri advised, holding out the glass. “It’s sake, you’ll like it, trust me. It’s rice wine.”

Sake, huh?

He thought briefly of the bubbly pink wine Chris had brought to his apartment, and how it had popped and danced on his tongue, warmed his chest and loosened his body.

He took the small heavy glass, a simple design painted on the side, and gave Yuuri a wide smile.

This shouldn’t be too bad.

* * *

 _“Yuuuuri ~”_  Victor leaned against the other man, throwing his arms around him. “Yuuri, I feel….so good.”

Yuuri had a small smile on his lips, adjusting his shoulder to take on more of Victor’s weight. “Yeah?” He prompted, his hand holding onto Victor tight.

“Warm,” he decided, blinking, “and light. And...wobbly.”

“That’s alcohol for you,” Yuuri was smiling -- Victor could hear it. “Never knew you were such a lightweight, though.”

“Lightweight,” Victor tried out the word for himself. It felt curly in his mouth, as he tried to mouth around the syllables. Yuuri was laughing at him, causing him to stick his tongue out.

Yuuri rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Time to turn in, Victor. Let’s go.” Victor was feeling pretty heavy and sleepy, so any protest at the phrase would have been useless. But still. It was the principle of it all.

“If I’m so _light,”_ Victor held up his arms, a challenge. “Carry me!”

Yuuri gave him a look, “I’m not carrying you.”

Victor made his eyes wide and liquid, “But _Yuuri ~_ ” He kicked his legs out, gesturing towards them. “They don’t _work_ anymore!”

With...was true. Victor didn’t think he could stand at the moment, much less walk across the inn in a straight line. He patted the mat he curled up on -- looks like he wasn’t going anywhere tonight.  

Yuuri sighed, a look of amusement taking place on his face. Finally he sighed, and crouched down.

Victor gasped as he was suddenly pulled into Yuuri’s chest, his noodle arms coming up to weakly grab at the other man’s neck. “Oh, Yuuri you’re so strong!”

Even stone faced Mari was smiling into her palm, the alcohol loosening her body to shake around her laughter. Yuuri’s face went warm as Victor’s hands came up to his face, squeezing his cheeks together.

“You can sleep on my floor tonight,” Yuuri decided as he began to walk off, his family’s laughter following them. “I can keep an eye on you, and I truly don’t believe you’ll even notice.”

Victor tore his gaze away from how the light was dancing across the wall. “Notice what?”

Yuuri hummed the way he did whenever he was correct about something, but didn’t want to be smug. Victor had heard it a lot growing up. Yuuri lightly kicked open his bedroom door, readjusting Victor’s weight in his arms, before slowly lowering him to the ground. “Nothing. But it’s bedtime.” Yuuri pulled away, turning to lean against his mattress, looking down at Victor with a small smile.

“What?” That, despite how incredibly smart and wise and all-knowing Yuuri was, was simply unbelievable. It _couldn’t_ be bedtime yet, even though Victor _was_ quite tired at this point. He sat up, patting a bit uselessly at his pockets for a few moments, before his hand emerged victorious with his phone gripped tight.

Ha. Victorious. Victor. That was his _name._

“Yes it is,” Yuuri’s voice was the picture of patience even as Victor turned his confused gaze onto the other man.

Victor ignored the other man, clicking on his screen instead. He frowned, turning the screen to Yuuri as proof. “Yuuri!” His voice was the exact octave of whine that used to get him an extra hour of ice time with Yakov, “It’s only eight! The phone says so and, _hick_ , the screen wouldn’t lie! It promised me!”

“It promised you?” Yuuri’s gaze turned doubtful. “That’s unlikely. At the very least, I’m offended I wasn’t invited to this conversation.”

“It’s only eight,” Victor went back to stabbing at his phone screen, “That’s too early.”

Yuuri was paying him no real attention, continuing on with what he was doing. “We can just talk, if you want.” Yuuri told him after a moment, still invested in his task.

Oh, that was a good idea! Yuuri always had the best ideas.

“Why, thank you.” Yuuri’s voice was kind, patient, even as Victor drunkenly draped himself across the carpet. Victor hummed, playing with his phone, until a topic occurred to him.

He gripped at his phone, a relieved sigh escaping him. “I’m just _so_ happy Britney is doing okay.”

Yuuri paused as he unfolded the blanket, his hands hovering in the air. “...Britney?”

Victor sat up, a gasp already on his lips. “Yuuri, Britney _Spears_ , of _course.”_

“Oh,” Yuuri blinked at him, “do you...know her?”

Victor briefly considered that. Did he? Oh god, did he? He’d have to text Christophe at once.

But Victor at that moment only held out his phone, an open Wikipedia article glowing back at him. “I meant _this.”_

Yuuri took the phone, “Oh, yeah.” He peered at the screen for a moment longer before passing it back. “I remember that. The magazines were kinda horrible to her.”

“Kind of?” Victor’s voice was a scandal, “Yuuri, they _relished_ in her breakdown. It says so right here!”

“And I completely believe you,” Yuuri had long since learned the pointlessness of arguing with a drunk person, wisdom he put to use at that moment. “But there’s nothing we can do about 2007 Britney right now, nearing two in the morning eleven years later.” Yuuri gave him an amused look, an action that was becoming more and more commonplace.

“I’m gonna tweet her,” Victor decided, pulling and poking at his phone again. “Chris -- Christophe showed me how to talk to people on here, and she deserves to _know._ ” But before he could finish his sentence, his phone was being plucked out of his hands.

“Not tonight she doesn’t,” Yuuri clicked the screen off, pocketing the piece of tech before flipping out a blanket towards him. “Now, it’s time for sleep. Tomorrow morning is for tweeting Britney Spears.” Yuuri paused at that, “Wow. I think I would have actually died to talk to Britney Spears at ten years old.”

“I would have,” Victor agreed seriously, falling back onto the carpet. Suddenly he felt a lot more woozy then before. He looked to Yuuri, who only looked amused with the whole conversations.

Realizing something, Victor gasped, and sat up. Slowly, albeit, because the low coming nausea forming at the back of his throat wasn’t allowing for anything else. He turned on the other boy.

“You didn’t drink like, at all tonight.” Victor jammed a finger into the muscle of Yuuri’s leg, hanging off the side of the bed. “That’s not fair!”

“I, uh, I don’t really drink.” Victor kept poking his leg but despite this Yuuri’s face still held traces of emotion. “It messes with my anxiety meds. I try to keep it to a minimum. Anyways, I get crazy when I drink, so when I do let loose it’s definitely not going to be around my parents.”

There was a moment of silence as Victor’s slow mind worked to process this all. When he finally spoke, he worked to keep his voice even and sober. Even intoxicated, Victor could tell this moment from the others.

“I didn’t know you had anxiety,” Victor’s words were picked special and said slow, his sobriety a forced factor.

Yuuri shrugged, pulling his legs up, and leaned against his headboard. “Yeah. I got diagnosed in high school. Dancing and working out helps a lot but it got worse in college and -” He took a small breath, and the streetlight shining from outside his window danced across his skin in orange light. “I got worse before I started getting better. But the medication helps.”

The previous light mood had been leached away almost entirely. The current mood, heavier and more serious, was a rarity in their shared conversations so far.

This was his chance, he supposed, if he didn’t want to ruin another moment.

“Yuuri,” He had to ask. Since the moment he saw Yuuri in this time, he’s been needing to know. He _had_ to ask. “Why did we stop being friends? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri’s voice was soft, “you never really told me.”

He...never told him?

Out of all the times Victor has heard about himself -- about how horrible he was to his employees, to Christophe, to his family and friends -- this… this might have been the worst.

“What?” Victor breathed out this word, barely a whisper of a sound.

Leaning against the headboard, Yuuri curled his legs up to his chest. There was a long stretch of silence, so long that Victor considered if Yuuri was simply abandoning the conversation altogether, when finally, he spoke.

He was so still, and so unlike anything Victor had ever seen. He spoke. “Do you remember your 13th birthday? When we went to the ice skating rink?”

Victor’s limbs felt like they were frozen together, clenching together at the other man’s words. “Yes,” he breathed out.

Yuuri was oblivious to his tension, “Do you remember how that bully teased you off the ice? And you ran into the supply closet?”

Victor could only nod slightly. Of course he remembered. This was hardly a month back for him -- he remembered everything from the outfit Yuuri was wearing to the advertisement banners wrapped around the rink. Yuuri continued.

“It was after that, I think, everything kind of changed.” He swallowed, “You became obsessed with being popular, being... _beautiful._ You got all these new friends and you were always so busy and --” Only a few feet away, Yuuri seemed so much farther. “We just stopped being friends like that, I guess.”

Yuuri let out a shuddering breath.

“Why did you come to me?” Yuuri asked his own question, the one that had been on his mind since the moment Victor appeared on his doorstep. They both had their own, then. “Why now?”

Victor took a moment, and a breath, to collect his thoughts. And then he said everything.

“I don’t think I’m a good person, Yuuri.” Victor buried his face into his knees. “I just, I have everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I dreamed of when I was thirteen but…” He took a steadying breath, “But none of it is actually worth _anything.”_

“I’ve been a bad person longer than I’ve been a good person,” Victor wished he had his flowing locks back to hide behind. “I’m a bad person, but you’ve always been the best person I know. And after I....after I realized that, I had to come find you.” Victor swallowed around the tightness in his throat, “I couldn’t keep the best person in my life, and that’s how I really knew I was bad.”

“Victor…” Yuuri’s voice was pained, “Victor, we drifted apart but that doesn’t mean you’re bad.”

“My family hates me, Yuuri. My - my own dog runs away from me.” he sobbed into his knees, “I don’t know who I am, but I _hate_ them and so does everyone else.” He was much too drunk for these kind of emotions, these heavy thoughts and facts that drowned out everything else like a heavy wave.

“I don’t hate you,” Yuuri’s voice was as soft as Victor had ever heard it, “I could never hate you.”

“Why not?” Victor was suddenly desperate for the answer, the one fact through all this that didn’t make sense. Victor, it seemed, had been the worst to Yuuri through all this -- how could he _not?_

Yuuri seemed as loss for an answer, his mouth opening and closing without sound. Finally, he only gave Victor a small shrug, an even smaller weak smile, and settled on, “It’s just you, Victor. I could _never.”_

Victor went quiet at that. There was a long, stretched moment of silence.

“Come up here,” Yuuri’s voice was soft, “We can both fit.”

Victor hardly had to consider it. He climbed in wordlessly, sunk into the warmth of another pressed close, and breathed in the scent of Yuuri’s shampoo, the inn standard. He pulled the stained blue comforter over his shoulder.

Victor laid with Yuuri’s in his bed, and he slept.

* * *

When Victor woke up the next morning, it was to a hand shaking him awake. He blinked up at them, even as Yuuri walked away from the bed the moment he saw Victor awake.

Victor gave him a questioning look, rubbing at his eyes. His throat was dry, his head pounding, but he wasn’t nauseous anymore. It’s the small stuff.

He reached from the water bottle on the side table, most likely put there by Yuuri himself, and drained most of it before looking back to the other man, an odd look on his face. Victor frowned. “Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

“I...talked to Christophe.” Yuuri dipped his head, “I got his number from your phone. I hope that was okay.”

Victor cocked his head to the side, the blanket falling from his shoulder. “Yuuri? What’s going on?”

Yuuri peeked up a look at him through his messy bangs, “You…” he trailed off, shaking his head after a moment. “It would be easier to just show you.”

As he said that, he reached beside him and pushed open the door, and Victor’s breath caught in his chest. His mouth fell open.

“You…” Victor was already choked up, “you brought _Makkachin_ here.”

“I talked to Yakov, and Christophe went and got her for me.” Yuuri explained, reaching out and ruffling Makkachin’s soft curls. Makkachin, sitting so perfectly still and good in Yuuri’s doorway, stared straight ahead at Victor still laid out across the bed. He sat up, throwing his legs over the side, and crumbled on his knees to the ground in a single fluid movement.

His arms were shaking as he opened them up wide, his watery eyes sparkling. “Makkachin,” he nearly sobbed, “Makkachin, sweetheart, come here.”

The dog stayed in the doorway, her tail flat against the tile. Victor’s arms began to fall to his sides. “Makkachin, _come._ ” Victor tired again, his voice wobbly. Dread began pulling down at his chest like a sinking rock. Makkachin used to pounce on him before he even got the sentence out most of the time.

“Sing her name,” Yuuri quietly suggested, leaning against the wall, watching him. “Like...you used to.”

Victor stared up at the other man for a moment before clearing his throat, swallowing roughly, and angled his chin back up. His voice high, he gave her a watery smile. “Makka, Makka, _Makka~”_

Makkachin stayed in the doorway. Victor’s resolve began to crumble. Just as he was ready to drop his arms and crawl back into the cot, Makkachin moved.

Not much, still in the doorway, but -- but her _tail._ Her tail was wagging, just slightly.

Victor threw the other man an incredulous look, turning back to his dog. “Makka, Makka, _Makkachin~”_ He tried again, his voice stronger. Her tail began wagging harder, back and forth. Victor beamed around his watery eyes, and sang again. This time, Makkachin stood from her perch in the door, and stared at him, now panting happily.

One more time.

“Makka, Makka, _Makk -_ ” Before he could finish, Makkachin’s body was bouncing onto him throwing them both to the floor.

Victor buried his face in her fur, fully sobbing now as Makkachin panted into his chest, shoving her nose into his neck, licking his face and neck.

Over Makkachin’s fur, Victor could see Yuuri still in the doorway, a wet smile on his face. His breath still hitching, Victor carefully removed one arm from Makka’s shaking body to hold it out to Yuuri.

Yuuri seemed surprised, but not unpleasantly so. After only a moment of consideration, he stepped forward, took Victor’s hand, and knelt down next to Makkachin, who only got more excited with the extra attention.

He smiled down at Makkachin, running his fingers through her fur. Victor looked to the other man, smiling softly as he ran his fingers across Makkachin’s nose, and Victor caught his eye.

“Thank you, Yuuri,” his voice was raw, still wobbling. “I…” He looked at the other man through his eyelashes, his face still wet from tears and probably a complete mess. "I don't know what else to say." 

"Of course," Yuuri slid his gaze away. "Of course." 

He and Makkachin remained there on the floor for another long while, Makkachin happily licking at Victor every few moments, Victor burying his face in her fur. Yuuri had stood after a while, brushing off his dog hair covered sweatpants, and went about his room. Victor busied himself with taking approximately five hundred new photos of him and Makkachin, adding stickers and colors from an app Christophe had downloaded for him. 

Yuuri, coming back in the room from when he had stepped out to speak to his parents, gave them both an amused look, and huffed out a laugh as Victor shoved his phone towards him. It was honestly a great photo, if a bit blurry. Smiling, Yuuri began to shift around the things in his room.

They had yet to clean up most of the mess from the other night, dusty artifacts and shiny aged items still thrown about the room. They weren’t in much hurry to either, from how they kept returning it all.

Victor was looking through some of it now, collecting all the yearbooks and magazines into a tall pile so Makkachin could lay across the floor with him.  

He paused, an older issue of _H.M. Magazine_ in his hands, his own face staring back at him with an array of other models joining him.

He must have been making a face, because Yuuri leaned over in question, looking over his shoulder. He made a noise, perching his lips.

“I do miss how fun they used to be,” Yuuri ran his fingers over the lined up spines, “I mean, it’s a beautiful magazine -- you've done wonders with it. But it's so serious now.”

“Yeah,” Victor agreed slowly, blinking down at the bound copies. He looked...blank in the photo. Staring into the camera, emotionless, pale. It was nothing like the magazine he has grown up with, with all the neon colors and smoldering, grinning celebrities.

The committee always went on about their sales, how they were so steadily declining, and he considered that. He filed that fact away, burying his face into Makkachin’s fur once again. He had to make up for lost time. She didn’t seem to mind a single bit -- even shoving her nose back under his hand when he momentarily pulled it away to grab his phone.

She was the Best Dog.

Yuuri began shoving his bag together, his eyes flickering to the clock every few moments. He had to leave for his recital soon, and Victor could be following along later on with Mama, Dad, and Mari.

Yuuri zipped up the bag, looking over to Victor sprawled across the carpet as he spoke. “Do you have something to wear? I mean, Dad usually wears a suit, and Mama insists on a dress, and Mari wears, like, her nice leather jacket.” Yuuri looped the duffle bag strap around his neck, letting it fall across his torso before standing. He gestured to his closet, grabbing a few last things. “You can raid my closet, if you need to. They, um --” his cheeks went rouge, “they might be big on you. But maybe towards the back I have some smaller stuff?”

Victor thought briefly to the duffel bag Christophe had packed -- the other man had packed for nearly every situation, Victor had discovered after laying out all the outfits. Victor could like, give him a raise for being so great. Or maybe take him shopping. Either way, he was the best. 

“Actually, I think I’ll be okay.” Victor beamed with his words, “I have the _perfect_ outfit packed.”

* * *

“You’re wearing [ that.” ](http://assets.nydailynews.com/polopoly_fs/1.33401.1313723127!/img/httpImage/image.jpg_gen/derivatives/gallery_1200/gal-90s-growing-pains-jpg.jpg) Mari’s words were a question lacking in just that, the words falling flat like a statement. She crossed her arms, her posh leather jacket pulling at her arms, and gave him an unimpressed look. “Really.”

Victor stuck his nose in the air, refusing to be intimidating by her leather and lace combo. He had once seen her throw up nachos when Yuuri insisted on an amusement park birthday party, and had bet against Victor on the number of roller coasters they could cover in an hour.

Victor had been practicing sit spins since he basically hit the ice. Mari should have _known._

Even with her judgemental eyes on him, he had to crack a smile at the memory. Mari only rolled her eyes.

“You’re supposed to be the face of fashion or whatever,” Her voice was taking on a faint layer of amusement, even as she grabbed her keys. She took a moment to pass over a flat cap, probably one of her father’s, and gave him a look. “What happened to that?”

Victor gave her a happy shrug, even as he pulled on the cap and tucked his hair away into it. Winding their arms together, he began to lead them out of the hall.

It was time for Yuuri’s show.

* * *

The theater was grand and magnificent, awe-inspiring at its finest.

Victor supposed he had probably attended equally as impressive events in this time, but to himself now, this was all so incredibly, amazingly new.

They were a bit early, Dad had insisted they get there with time to spare, so there weren’t many other people crowding in yet. This was nice, as it let Victor wander around the theater and take everything in. He was strolling around, smiling and beaming at anyone around him, his excitement growing with every passing moment. There was a certain energy here, before the show, that was nearly addiction. He wondered if Yuuri felt it too.

The crowd was just starting to get thicker when he turned, looking to return back to his seat, when he caught sight of the corner of the stage, and he paused.

“Yuuri!” Victor gave him a wide, heart-shaped smile. Yuuri’s hair was slicked back, stage makeup painted on his face, but he was still in his baggy t-shirt and leggings from that morning. Victor gave him a confused look as the other man rushed forward, “Isn’t the show starting soon?”

Yuuri stopped before him, giving him a small smile as he surveyed Victor’s clothes. “Nice outfit, first. I just wanted to make sure you all got your tickets fine.”

Mari, pausing by when she noticed her brother, gave Yuuri a look. “Because we’ve had _so_ much trouble with the process in the past.”

Yuuri’s cheeks, even covered in the bright stage blush, turned a shade darker. He shot Mari an annoyed look, turning back to face Victor. Almost instantly, his face went softer.

“Are you ready? Excited?” Victor gave him a bright smile, grabbing the other boy’s hand in eagerness.

Yuuri’s hand tightened around his palm. He bit his lip, looking up at Victor through his eyelashes. “I’m excited that you’re here.”

From the stage door, someone was gesturing towards Yuuri impatiently. Around them, more people were taking their seats. Yuuri nodded, and looked back to Victor with a gleam in his eyes.

There was something different about Yuuri in that moment. His eyes were sharper, his chin angled up at a steady slant.

Confidence looked good on Yuuri.

A dark blush was dusting across Victor’s cheekbones now, no makeup needed.

 _Really_ good.

Yuuri’s hand let go from where Victor had been gripping it, his fingers coming up to trace Victor’s shirt collar. Victor was nearly holding his breath.

“Don’t take your eyes off me,” Yuuri’s voice was never as Victor had heard it, as he leaned in close to Victor’s face. A surprising color filled Victor’s cheeks at the action. “Promise me.”

Victor’s throat was suddenly so incredibly dry. “I promise,” he rasped. “I swear.”

Not a pleased look, but one of pure pleasure came over Yuuri’s face. He stretched up, “Good. I’ll know if you don’t.”

“Of course,” Victor breathed out, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Yuuri didn’t spare him another word, only a look, before he was pulling away and back to the stage entrance. The space before him had never felt so empty.

“Ah,” Mama was so suddenly there next to him. Oh gosh -- had she been there the entire time? She seemed too entirely pleased, her hands folded at her waist. “That’s our Yuuri.”

Victor struggled to swallow around the dryness in his throat. “I...yes, it is.”

Mama took his elbow, her grip strong and steady. She seemed to know he needed support. “Our seats, Vicchan.”

Ah, good. Victor _definitely_ needed to sit down, after whatever _that_ was.

* * *

The understatement of the century would be saying that Yuuri’s recital was simply beautiful.

Even as the crowd rose and boomed with a standing ovation, Victor was breathless and wide-eyed in awe as the company came out for their bows. Yuuri in particularly, beaming and red-cheeked, surrounded by his fellow dancers. They pushed him forward, taking a moment to clap just for him. Victor yelled for the other man until his throat felt raw, Mama and Dad shooting him amused looks. Mari bumped their hips together, a small eyeroll following, but even she looked happy and proud as Yuuri took a single bow on his own. The crowd was nearly deafening.

Yuuri and the rest of his company disappeared backstage as the audience began to stand and gather their things, and Victor turned to where Yuuri’s parents and sister were doing the same. After quick discussion, Victor was breaking off from the three and winding his way through the sea of people. It was decided that Mari would leave with Mama and Dad to beat the traffic, seemingly used to the after-theater rush out of the building. Victor had volunteered to stay behind and ride back with Yuuri, mostly just excited to gush with the other man about the show.

Victor shifted through the crowd with ease, his eyes wide and dancing over the crowd looking for Yuuri’s familiar face. It didn’t take long of this, especially as the crowd began to thin out more and more as the time passed, until Victor finally came across the other man, although not alone.

Someone was talking to Yuuri, their hand extended with a small white card. Wide-eyed, Yuuri took the slip of paper, staring down at it for a long moment. Victor hesitantly approached, catching Yuuri’s eye as the woman turned to disappear into the crowd.

Victor came up beside him, throwing the retreating woman a curious look, “Who was that?”

Yuuri stuffed the paper into his pocket, shaking his head. “Ah. Just a fellow dancer.” He seemed to be shaking off the moment, turning back to Victor with red cheeks, a small smile. “Did you...like it?”

Victor was nearly breathless with the memory. “You were _amazing,_ Yuuri.” His voice was a true gush, “When you were on stage it was like…” Victor shook his head in disbelief, stars in his eyes. “There was nothing else.”

Yuuri was blushing, hard. “Everyone in the company worked really hard. It was a team effort.”

“But you were…” Victor was at loss for words. “You were _everything.”_

Yuuri stared at him for a long moment, his mouth pared open. He blinked a few times, processing. Thankfully -- at least for Yuuri himself -- they were interrupted before Yuuri could form a response.

One of Yuuri’s fellow dancers came up behind him, grinning at them both. “You’re coming tonight right?” He shot Victor a quick wink, even as he kept walking past them. “Company is totally welcome!”

“Maybe!” Yuuri shouted back, turning back to face Victor.

He gave the other man a questioning look. “What’s tonight?”

“There’s a little after party down by the beach,” Yuuri explained, giving him a small half-shrug, somehow sheepish and daring at the same time. “Most of the company is going to be there. I usually never go to them but --” He gave Victor a small wicked smile, “it sounded fun.”

Maybe it was Yuuri’s words from before the show, or the ritual, or even just how Yuuri was impossibly glowing under the poor lighting of the theater hallway, but whatever it was, it was leaving Victor feeling a bit daring too.

He took Yuuri’s hand in his, this time being so different from the numerous, various times of their youth, and squeezed the other man’s palm in his. “I’d love to go.”

* * *

Yuuri, always prepared, had thought to pack them outfits in advance for the off chance of a celebration that night, thankfully saving Victor from having to pick out sand from his only packed suit.

“The hat’s Mari’s,” He traded the flat cap for another, shoving it over Victor’s silver locks, before handing over the rest and gesturing towards the backstage bathroom. “But I picked the rest from your bag, should be warm enough.”

Victor gave him a small smile, looking over the clothes Yuuri had picked out.  “[ I like this outfit. ](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/1d/6a/f9/1d6af9b91f3354dd96ab8870d15f00ff--atlanta-de-cadenet-taylor-s-outfit.jpg) It reminds me…”

“Of when we were kids?” Yuuri finished for him, smiling as he pulled out his own sweater. “I thought so too. It looks like it was taken exactly from a photo album of yours.” He paused, giving Victor a thoughtful look. “Did you? Do that, I mean?”

Victor kind of half-wished he did. His sweaters as a kid were impossibly soft. He shook his head, “Found it all on a shopping trip. Christophe thinks some of the trends are a bit too old to be making a comeback.”

“If anyone could do it, it’d be you.” Yuuri gave him a warm look, collecting his things. “Change and meet here in five?”

“Sounds good,” Victor told him, and it did.

* * *

Yuuri, as it turned out, was quite popular.

Ever since they arrived on the small beach the other man had been the receiving end of calls, high fives, a few back claps. As well as some other attention involving Victor himself.

Yuuri dipped his head at a few whistles, his hand pulling Victor along, a blush dusting the apples of his cheeks. Victor grinned and waved, not very worried about any recognition, and let the other man pull him along,

Yuuri hardly paid the others any attention, only waving to a few of his fellow dancers, a few of them teasing grins and suggestive jokes. Victor was seemingly invisible here, in the dark night and under Mari's dark hat, his trademark hair pulled back and hidden, but his hand in Yuuri’s was still just as obvious.

There were more people then Victor was expecting -- he didn’t think there were this many in the entire theater -- but from how everyone else was acting, this was commonplace. He squeezed at Yuuri’s hand. A second later, Yuuri’s was echoing the motion.

Victor hid a smile into his shoulder. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

The crowd around them, most gathered around picnic tables and open coolers, was getting bigger with every moment.

“Hey,” Yuuri’s gaze settled on him, steady. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Victor smile in return is small but genuine. His hand slips into the other man’s as easy as when they were in kids, ready to take on the world. “Always.”

* * *

Their shoes were quickly abandoned in the sand as they wandered up and down the sealine. A bit farther up, a couple of people were leaning large logs together, stuffing material into the corners, setting up a circle of rocks. A soon to be bonfire, readying for its birth.

“Oh my god,” Yuuri was laughing along with what Victor had said. “Ms. Lenzo was the worst. Remember when she made you write lines?”

“And when I talked back, I lost my recess and cried in front of the class,” Victor shot him a grin, “So then you threw your pencil box across the room so you could stay in with me.”

“And we didn’t even write the lines!” Yuuri exclaimed, their palms swinging between them. “All we did was talk and when she came back, she was _so mad.”_

“An extra week of losing recess, like it mattered.” Victor’s smile was so obviously warm even with only the moonlight and dim beach light. “I don’t think we even cared, as long as we were together.”

Yuuri smiled at that, his gaze suddenly a bit far away.

Victor squeezed his palm, bringing him back. “Hey,” he gave him a concerned look, “what’s wrong?”

Yuuri gave him a small smile at the concerned note in his voice, and took a few moments to gather his thoughts.

“What happened?” Yuuri’s voice was so soft, “After all this time, all these years…why now? Why me? You had so many friends in high school.”

“I had to find you,” Victor told him, this time his own gaze directed away. “I woke up one day and I had everything I’ve ever wanted. But I didn’t have my family. I didn’t have _you.”_

Yuuri blinked at him, his mouth parted open. “Victor?”

“You’re my family,” Victor told him, turning to look at the other man, “you’re my best friend. And Yuuri, I…” Before Victor could continue, Yuuri was there. 

Closer, so much closer, with his hands in Victor's hair, their bodies leaning together, and in the next moment, Yuuri’s lips were gently pressing against Victor’s.

And they were kissing.

They were _kissing._

From behind them, in the distance, a fire suddenly erupted on the pile of sticks, cheers and sounds of excitement following. Orange light burst across them, silhouetting them both against the soft darkness of the night.

Victor eyes slipped shut, his hand coming up to cup Yuuri’s jaw, and they kissed.

This was his first kiss. That he could remember, at least. But there was something sure here: this was the first one that really, truly mattered. 

It was sweet, it was chaste, and it would be counted as hardly anything significant by many other people their age.

Above them, the moon was bright, the sky was cloudless, the stars hidden despite. It wasn’t too cold in the face of the current month, most likely to do with the raging fire nearby. But despite all this, despite the glow of the moon, the glare of the fire, the absence of the stars, Victor had only a single fact of attention -- towards the man in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEET YEET!!!!!!!!! I LOVE THEM!!!! THEY LOVE EACH OTHER!!!! AH AH AH!!!!  
> the yura scenes made me cry but the makka scenes made me SOB  
> this was a 43 page google doc from hell send help  
> honestly........how will i ever know what period of art i am based on my brunch order.....my fiction has overtaken my fantasy and now i am stuck in the eternal limbo of the withhold of knowledge.....  
> literally the mental image of victor in that dog hat has watered my crops and cleared my skin wow magic  
> pls give me validation i need it to live  
> find me on tumblr at rosyredlipstick.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> before the change, christophe's life was the real life version of the devil wears prada except he was by himself and "there was no fabulous emily blunt in the corner providing snarky commentary or guidance"  
> also i primarily based this idea off the two versions of vitya i often see in this fandom? the ditzy, giggly selfish kid vs the cold, mean dismissive man. im hoping to write both of them well, as well as later showing what I see as the 'real' victor? also i love chick flicks so.  
> im aware that victor's birthday is on dec 25th and the ice rink would probably be closed, and they would be celebrating christmas. i know. but at the time same time, i wanted to write this fic and it takes place on vityas birthday. so.  
> pls give me validation i need it to live  
> follow me at rosyredlipstick.tumblr.com for 2am rants and writing updates  
> 2/2/18 -  
> [Check out this amazing chapter one Vitya fanart by tumblr user Tototones!](https://tototones.tumblr.com/post/170430295140/fanart-for-the-lovely-rosyredlipstick-of-victor)  
> 


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